Gone Wylde 08: Who Wins This Round?
by Concolor44
Summary: Complications arise from Wendy's last adventure and Karl has to do something about them. But the ISB and the TFN always seem to be in the way. Rated mainly for violence.
1. Interlude

**_Gone Wylde_**

_by Clint McInnes, aka Concolor44_

. . .

. . .

. . .

Book Eight: Who Wins This Round?

. . .

. . .

. . .

Interlude

Lawrence sloped into my office and tossed something at me.

Now, please understand that my preference is to catch thrown objects with my hands rather than, say, my forehead or (as in this case) my collarbone. But as that storied sage of legend, Mick Jagger, once observed, you don't always get what you want. My chair rocked as I doubled over.

"Oh, ouch! Sorry, man! You okay?"

I picked up the can of Mountain Dew and rubbed my shoulder. "Nice shot. The pressure point's a little closer to medial, though. Better luck next time."

"… I said I was sorry."

I popped the top and took a long swallow. Lawrence came over and looked at my monitor, which showed a lone figure seated on a flat rock at the edge of a placid lake. "That's Wendy."

"Oh, _very_ good."

A cautious frown accompanied the squint he gave me before adjusting his glasses and looking back at the screen. He took in her halter top and cropped low-rider shorts and gave a low whistle. "Holy cow."

"You need new specs. She's a vixen."

He gave me an elaborate wince, then straightened and took a drink from his Dr. Pepper. "What's she up to?"

"Trying to contact me."

"… How d'you know?"

I reached over and turned up the volume.

"… _**know** you can hear me, damn it! Pick up your end, you stinkin' **freak**! I ain't got all day. Karl's gonna be back any minute, and if he finds out, he'll flip. I have to Talk To You! Answer me, damn it! Answer …"_

I flipped the sound off.

"Um, she sounds pissed."

I nodded. "An accurate assessment."

"So why don't you talk to her?"

I swiveled my chair around so I wouldn't have to crane my neck to look at him. "Because I don't fancy a bitch session right now, thanks just the same."

Taking a step backward, he gave me a quick up and down. "Geez, you're crabby today."

"Talk to me after I've caught up on my sleep."

"And when will that be?"

"The way I feel? In about a month. If nothing wakes me up."

He leaned against the wall, crossed his ankles, and finished his drink. "That whole 'Overlord' thing really settled your hash, didn't it?"

"You have no idea."

"Anything I can do?"

"Well … you already did it. I don't have to wear that …" A yawn caught me off-guard. I followed it up with a stretch. "Sorry. That smelly, old helmet any more. And you warned me about the signal buried in that carrier wave."

"I mean now. As in, 'What can I do for you _lately_?' In the way of electronic wizardry, that is."

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. "I can't think that hard."

His eyes went back to the monitor. Wendy had evidently given up on contacting me, and was stalking back up to the house, the portal box under one arm, the very storms of Hell playing across her face.

"Do you know what she wants to talk about?"

"I've got a pretty good idea."

"And … you just don't want to go there?"

I pointed a finger at him and winked, making a **_tch_** sound with the back of my tongue.

He held my gaze while taking another swallow. "Does it have anything to do with that last chapter? 'cause I know going through something like that would've knocked _me_ into an outside loop. I'm still not sure why she went along with it."

I took a long breath and turned to face the monitor. Wendy slammed the box onto the edge of the porch and flopped down beside it. After staring off to the east for a bit, she turned and laid a paw on the box's tiny control panel. Her mouth began moving again, but in a much more subdued manner.

Lawrence said, "Turn the sound up."

I moved the appropriate switch.

"… _would just give me some kind of idea. That's all. Honest. It isn't like I want to back out or anything. I mean … you __did__ promise. At least … that's how I remember it. You promised me a … a happy ending."_ She sniffed and wiped at her muzzle._ "It's just that I can't … I don't see where this is going. How it's all gonna work out, y'know?"_ She stared at the box for a moment, then leaned her head against the post and closed her eyes. _"You're not there, are you? I know you can't be all the time. You've got a life, too. But it's … it's been a while. And things … lately, things have been … getting weird. So … if you don't mind, would you … would you call? Please?"_

Lawrence's empty drink can made a startling racket when it ricocheted around inside the small metal wastebasket by my desk. I glanced around at him, suddenly a bit disquieted by his expression.

"What the hell could it hurt, Clint?"

"What?"

"Talk to her!"

"… I can't. Yet."

"Bullshit!"

"… _and I guess I won't be going anywhere for a while, so … you know … if you can spare the time. Just let me know. Okay?"_

She moved her paw and the monitor went gray.

There was a hard edge to his voice. "As much trouble as you went through to convince me that they're all real, and you can _treat_ her like that? What's your heart _made_ of, boron nitride?"

"… You don't understand."

"I understand plenty."

"No, Lawrence, the timing has to be …"

"Timing my ass. You're afraid of something."

I leaned back in the chair and rested a forearm across my eyes, not saying anything.

"Why are you being so hard on her?"

"Because she wants to ask me some things, and there are things I can't tell her, and I'm afraid that she'd get violent if I don't, and she is a **_much_** better fighter than I am."

"The average fifth-grader is a better fighter than **_you_** are."

"You're all heart, Lawrence."

He persisted, "That's just a smoke screen. What is it you're so scared of?"

"I'm not scared of it. I just don't … know how to handle it."

"You could handle it by talking to her."

"That wouldn't help."

"You don't _know_ that!"

"Look …" I sat up and met his eyes. "She has some questions. She wants to know some things about … what's coming. And it wouldn't … wouldn't do her any good. It wouldn't help her. Really."

"Uh-huh. Right."

"It would skew her reactions."

"Reactions! She's not a _lab rat_, Clint!"

"… I know that."

"And here I thought _**I**_ was the scientist. Stupid of me."

Elbows on the desk, I rested my head in my hands for a few seconds to collect my thoughts. "Lawrence, it isn't like that." I looked up, shrinking a little under that accusatory stare. "There are some … complications coming up, and if she already knows how things are going to turn out, she won't be … she won't react the same way. And if she doesn't …" I held up a hand for a moment in supplication and then let it drop. "It would be bad. Bad things would happen."

"That's lame."

"Well I'm sorry."

"You said all the characters had chapter outlines, right?"

"Yes."

"To what level of detail?"

"… As much as they need."

His laugh was bitter. "There appear to be two schools of thought on that subject." He glanced around. "You got copies here?"

"Uh … yeah."

"Where's Wendy's?"

I only hesitated briefly before opening a drawer and pulling out a thick sheaf of paper, which I handed to him. He quickly flipped through it, his eyes widening. After a minute he stopped at one point and read for a bit. Then he dropped the papers on my desk and gave me a look of contempt. "I think that if she felt like it, she could sue your ass for entrapment. Or at least for false advertising."

"How?"

"This is _crap!_ Her outline for the last chapter reads, 'Wendy has an altercation with Arthur. Karl intervenes. Wendy learns some new things about herself.' And that's it." He shook his head in disbelief. "_That's_ your condensation of thirty-three pages of nightmare? What the hell were you _thinking?_"

I started to say something, but he cut me off. "And the end of the outline for the chapter before that only says, 'Arthur shows up.' For _God's sake_, Clint, he might be dropping by for _tea_ for all she knew!"

I was waaaay too tired to be having this conversation. "Lawrence … look, I've got my reasons, okay? She'll get her happy ending, don't worry. But I had a lot of limitations in the way I had to tie up that whole Overlord incident. It wasn't like I could just …"

"Limitations? Not from where I'm standing. You ought to apply your _limitations_ to how much _hell_ you put that poor vixen through."

I cradled my aching head again. The migraine was coming back.

His voice was rising. "At the very least you owe her an explanation of why she had to get sliced up. She gives you everything she's got, a hundred and ten percent, and _that's_ the thanks she gets? Hell, _I'll_ sue your ass _for_ her!"

I didn't look up. The pain was increasing exponentially, and the biofeedback tricks weren't helping. But I did mumble, "I don't believe you have legal standing to do that."

Something hit my desktop with a jingle, making me flinch. A few seconds later I heard the door slam. Dragging one eye open, I focused on the thing that had landed in front of me.

It was Lawrence's system passkey.

"So. I'm on my own, huh?" Giant, flaming termites were devouring the right half of my head. I hunched up out of the chair and stumbled as carefully as possible into the tiny half-bath where I kept my pain meds. A dose and a half went down quickly, and I stared at the ragged image in the mirror. "Eh. Won't be the first time."

* * *

_Karl was in a jubilant mood when he tooled the ATV back into the shed. But that quickly damped when he caught sight of Wendy. The vixen looked positively forlorn. He jumped off and ran to her, and she threw her arms around him._

_Somewhat muffled by his chest fur, she said, "You love me, don't you?"_

"_Oh, Honey! Yes! Of course! More than life." He held her tightly, picked her up and cradled her. "What brought this on?"_

_She just gave her head a slight shake. "Just … just take me inside and make love to me."_

_Gently nudging her muzzle around to make eye contact, he answered, "You talked me into it." And he carried her into the house._

##


	2. Chapter 1 Tribulation

**_Chapter One – Tribulation_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**It's good to slowly come to the realization that you understand nothing.**

_**-Maurice Maeterlinck**_

##

_** elsewhere **_

_The Overlord was puzzled. Not exactly worried – not yet – but puzzled._

_Its consumption of the nearly-mindless pawn was hardly what one might call a satisfying meal. Nevertheless it was sustenance after a fashion, and as such should have banked the fires of hunger, if only temporarily. Yet that hadn't happened. It was more ravenous this cycle than in any of the previous dozen, at least. Madly it probed the other feeding planes it could reach, searching for a suitable mind, some shaman or wizard who would be willing to trade a few sacrificial victims for a measure of temporal power._

_It was coming up empty._

_The connection to these planes should have been adequate, and truly strong in three cases, given their close angles to its home plane. Yet it was as if a veil were being slowly drawn across them. Even while there wasn't any single causative influence it could put a tentacle on, the separation persisted._

_It made contact several times, but every last soul it touched, instead of falling quickly under its sway, seemed to get some hint of danger, some inkling that all was not well … and he would squirm away. 'Frustration' hardly began to describe the Overlord's reaction to this situation._

_But it wasn't really worried. There had been dry spells in the past. It was inevitable, a natural cycle of feast and famine. This one would pass, just as all the others had._

_It would! It had to._

##

**Your pain  
****is the breaking of the shell  
****that encloses your understanding.**

_**-Kahlil Gibran**_

##

_** Saturday 10 June 2017 – 2:14pm **_

For the first few days after her miraculous recovery, Karl monitored Wendy's every waking hour … and most of her non-waking ones. That she had lived through her trials, much less thrived, still beggared his imagination. He kept waiting for the dénouement, for some indication that things might go south, but that moment never came. It was a matter of constant prayer for the wolverine.

Wendy was no less interested in her condition than he, but she took a different angle on things. She found several novel (and clandestine) ways to injure herself, watching almost clinically as the bleeding stanched, the flesh closed up, and the bruising vanished. This regenerative process held endless fascination for the vixen. She remembered how Karl had explained to her that he could control the pain of his wounds to a large degree, and she was eager to learn how herself. She also learned first-paw that her new metabolism required a large increase in caloric intake. That aspect of it wasn't quite as satisfying; she never did _quite_ feel full any more.

At the end of the fifth day, with the one person on which his life and sanity depended seemingly out of the woods and at peace with her 'revised' status, Karl decided that his top priority should be getting the powersled operational. If, God forbid, something went wrong with her – or if another completely unexpected weird catastrophe occurred – he wanted _mobility!_ And the ATV just wasn't going to cut it. He tripled the effort he applied to outfitting the sled as a hovercraft.

That was two days ago.

This day had gone well for the vixen. Karl spent the majority of his time in the shop, under the sled or working on some subsystem or other, which left Wendy plenty of time for experimentation. She learned more about herself each day, and the growing list excited her. From her initial lost and woeful question, her view had swung completely around to the point that she looked at these abilities as a gift. New possibilities occurred to her almost hourly. Her experimentation with damage escalated a bit each day. This morning she had plunged a chef's knife into her abdomen. It hurt badly, but as soon as she'd pulled it out the pain began to recede. Twenty seconds later she could find no hint, other than a few small smears of blood on her fur, that her taut belly had ever had more than a nodding acquaintance with the blade.

Now she examined the faint scars that were all that remained of her late torture at her ex-husband's paw. Thin and silvery, they made a jagged 'T' on her front. Carefully, she took the small throwing knife of metallic glass that Karl had given her, steeled herself, and cut out a section at the end of the scar some two centimeters long.

It hurt. Rather a lot. This wasn't just a slice; she removed a narrow strip containing the scar. _It's an 'ectomy' instead of an 'otomy'_ was the way she thought of it. But, as with all the other wounds she'd inflicted on herself, it stopped bleeding almost instantly and closed itself, pulling together from the ends and zipping up toward the center. Less than half a minute later, her flesh was whole. The fur was a bit thin there, but the scar tissue had been erased completely. Her thumb ran across the newly-minted skin, and a sly smile found its way to her muzzle. She nodded slowly; this had potential.

Standing to walk to the sink, Wendy had to brace her paw against the refrigerator as a sudden bout of intense dizziness slammed into her. It quickly passed. But she stood there for a couple of minutes, thinking furiously.

_What was that?_

_I never get dizzy! When I'm drunk, maybe, but that's the only time. And I haven't been drunk in a while._

_Maybe … maybe I've been cutting too much. Yeah. I'm starving, too. Yeah, that's probably it._

Since she was standing there at the refrigerator already, she copped a liter of orange juice and downed it in a few swallows. Then she rummaged around for something solid.

##

_** 6:45pm **_

"Oh, Jimmy, I'm so glad we decided to come here!"

"So am I, Sweetie." The tall feline gave his new wife a quick squeeze around the waist. She slipped her paw into his and they strolled along the wide boulevard, making a small game of which restaurant they should choose for supper. "Hey, Tonya, what about this place?"

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath through her delicate cat nose. "Smells good." Looking at the name, she said, "Thai place, huh? I've never had Thai. Have you?"

"Couple times, on business trips. Never when in Chicago, though. This would be the first time here. But then I've only been here … three times? Yeah. Three. And I always got the pizza."

"Can't fault you for that." She poked him. "But Thai food. You like it?"

"I did, yes. But that Thai restaurant was the only place I ever ate where I couldn't finish the meal because it was just too dang hot."

"Ooo! A challenge!" She gripped his paw more firmly and pulled him inside, nearly bumping into a fennec fox with a decidedly rumpled look about him. Jimmy held the door while he slumped out and meandered away to parts north. Tonya caught her husband's eye and said, in a low voice, "Homeless, you think?"

"That'd be my guess. He never made eye contact, though, and a lot of 'em are panhandlers for a living."

"Hm." She glanced at the menu on the door and noted the prices. "Well if he really is homeless I don't think he'd be eating here."

"Maybe he wasn't eating." He looked after the retreating figure, who hooked a right around the corner at the end of the block. Shrugging, he ushered Tonya inside. "I guess if he wanted help he'd have asked for it."

"Yeah. I guess." She took another deep breath and brightened considerably. "Chicken!"

* * *

As soon as he found a likely alley, the fennec ducked inside and sought a dark corner. Pulling out a sleek PA, he held it to his ear and said, "Sexton." After a two-second pause a voice responded, "Secure."

"Why did you page me?"

"You wanted to know if Claymore found out anything about Gulo."

The tall ears perked noticeably. "And?"

"So I thought you'd want to know if he got pinched."

The fox stiffened. "Pinched … how?"

"ISB Midwestern office figured out who he was. Nobody's been able to contact him in thirty-four hours."

Cursing low under his breath, the fennec responded, "What about Tracer?"

"Still active, as far as we know. But there's one other thing."

"… Are you going to tell me that Madame knows about it?"

"Afraid so."

The cursing increased in volume and creativity. "Did she say anything?"

"No. I just got off the line with her, and all she asked was that I confirm the identity of the fur who got nabbed. She … sort of frowned. More than normally, I mean. Then broke off the comm."

The fennec looked at his PA as if it might bite him. "And has Tracer not heard anything about Gulo?" He tried to keep the ragged hopefulness out of his voice.

"No. But, listen, Hamad …"

After waiting for three heartbeats the fennec snapped, "What?"

"I'm just wondering if there might not be a more direct way to go about this."

"Direct? You mean 'direct', as in the 'direct' methods you used in Quebec that cost us six operatives? That sort of 'direct'?"

"Sorry. Forget I said anything."

Hamad snapped the PA shut and leaned against the wall. _I'm running out of time. That thrice-damned wolverine could be anywhere on the planet. And now Madame's nephew …_

Looking around furtively, he made his way deeper into the seedy underside of the city.

##

_** Friday 16 June 2017 – 3:00pm **_

The vertigo struck four more times in the next five days, each time worse than before. The most recent episode, the one that hit her last night while she was in the shower, put her on the floor. Nearly twenty minutes limped by before she could stand without leaning against the walls.

More than once Wendy considered letting Karl know what was happening … but she didn't want him to worry. Mulling over the information he'd given her on the process he went through, she decided that it would likely pass with time. He'd been unconscious, held in an induced coma for most of the procedure. If anything happened during that phase to make him dizzy, he wouldn't have been aware of it.

The headaches, though, were going to be a problem.

The first attack came in the middle of Wednesday night, while they were making love. She was yanked unceremoniously from the ecstasy of climax into a pounding torment. Karl spent the next half-hour helping her through it with painkillers and massage. He monitored her blood pressure (a little high) and heart rate (more than a little high) and wasn't satisfied until she could assure him that the pain was completely gone. She'd slept fretfully.

Most of Thursday she fought a slight but persistent nausea that kept her in the house. It was gone today but left the vixen in a very cautious frame of mind. She remained alert for anything she might come to recognize as a precursor, but 'normal' seemed to be the watchword. There was breakfast, and painting while Karl worked on the sled, and a couple of short entries in a journal she'd recently begun, and an hour of knife training, and lunch, and a long shower together, and an hour of their favorite indoor sport, and a nap for Wendy while Karl tackled the sled again. She felt good when she awoke. She'd felt good all of today. That's probably why the next headache was such a surprise.

She sat in the glider, nursing a cup of tea, admiring the play of cloud-shadow across the valley floor. One second all was well; the next, she had dropped the teacup and curled into a fetal ball of misery. White shards of lightning split her head into shuddering fragments that hammers of congealed acid then pounded flat. The ruthless agony drove from her all other thought or feeling. She managed a ragged scream, but was having a lot of trouble drawing a good breath. Karl heard her on the third try.

* * *

"Are you sure the pain's gone?"

"Yes."

"_Absolutely_ sure?"

"I'm just tired now. That's all."

Karl was not assured. "That's what you said Wednesday night."

"And it was true. Can I just sleep a little now?"

"That would probably be a good idea. Can you _get_ to sleep?"

"No problem. Tired as I am." She shifted on the bed and pulled the sheet up to her chin, then gave a long yawn.

He sat and watched her as her breathing slowed and she slipped into a light slumber. Shaking his head, he bent and gave her a gentle kiss, then hurried back out to the shed. He was almost done with his modifications, and would be powering up for a test run in a couple of days.

It looked to him as if they might need to use it sooner rather than later.

##

_** Tuesday 20 June 2017 – 1:12pm **_

Capra's PA buzzed at him. He flipped it open, putting him face to face with his superior. "Yah?"

"You are forty-two minutes overdue in filing your report."

"… Yeh, muh day's goin' jus' great, t'anks fer askin'."

"Working on forty-three now."

"Geez, Raj, keep ya shoit on. If I get sumpn I'll letchya know."

"I meet with the Joint Chiefs in forty-seven minutes. Our revelation about the mole we unearthed has left them exceedingly nervous. _Your_ report is, shall we say, a 'high-visibility' portion of my presentation. If it is incomplete their reaction will be unpleasant. General Portman in particular seems to have had his sense of humor surgically excised where the subject of Beorn Gulo is concerned."

"Fine, fine! I'll send ya what I got. We ain't made no more headway dan we had two weeks ago, but ya c'n have it in black an' white if it'll make yaz feel any bettah."

"Thank you. Ten minutes, then?"

"Five. Won't take me no time ta write '_Nothin' ta report._'"

"Good. I'll be waiting." He broke communication without further comment.

A sour expression leaking through the shaggy fur around his eyes, the scruffy canine flipped the PA closed and turned back to his workstation. He called up the ISB secure connection and wrote:

**FROM: Leonard Capra**

**TO: Hemanth Rajid**

**SUBJECT: Beorn Gulo, aka Karl Luscus, ex Omicron Platoon**

**Since 2017.06.09 no sightings. No leads. No trails. No hints. No rumors. No luck. And no kidding.**

He hit the **SEND** icon, leaned back in his chair, and relit the stogie hanging off his lower lip. _Damn it, Gulo, what'd ya do? Charter a space ship? I ain't never seen anyfur vanish so totally in my life._

##

_** elsewhere **_

_Pain._

_The entire universe, distilled and refined, alchemically transformed into an auger of agony that gripped and tore at the Overlord like a rabid thing. The pain left it hollow … depleted … flaccid. Concentration became an ever-more-tenuous exercise for which it just didn't have the will._

_In short, it was starving._

_This was not possible. True starvation should take hundreds of cycles! It had been without food before, many times, and knew what it could and couldn't stand. But it was happening anyway. Its food sources cut off, the feeding planes lay just beyond its control, within perception but denied. It could see the millions of beings, sense their varied emotions, but nothing more. Tantalus never suffered as much._

_In some way it couldn't grasp, its vital energies were leaking away, flowing into the space between realities and vanishing. Silken ropes, paying out from its being, too slippery to hold, too strong to sever, siphoned off its very life._

_This had to be connected in some way to the pawn's death. No other explanation made any sense (though this one made precious little) and it searched feverishly to find some way to stanch the flow._

_But nothing worked._

_Its mind-shield, crafted so carefully, woven so subtly, began to fray. The Others probed around the edges, smelling its fear._

_Fear?_

_Yes. It knew the sensation. It had felt fear recently, when the minion sent a dream to the vixen and the Overlord's spirit essence had very nearly been sucked into a trap._

_That raised a question it had mulled over before. At the time, since it hadn't gotten caught, it hadn't really considered the source of the problem. Who had laid the trap? Why? How had he known even to do so?_

_Was this the connection?_

_It turned all its thoughts to the solution of this dilemma, pulling its own little pocket universe ever tighter around itself._

##

_** Friday 23 June 2017 – 4:40pm **_

Two more headaches struck Tuesday, sandwiching a half-hour period of intense vertigo. The last one was so bad she threw up everything she'd eaten for hours. She spent most of the day in bed, sipping tea and chewing on pain relievers, and Karl was nearly frantic. But since then, nothing. Wednesday and Thursday she felt fine. Her appetite came back with a vengeance, and they spent much of Wednesday afternoon honing her knife-throwing skills. Then Thursday she pestered Karl until he took her to bed for what turned out to be close to three hours of _very_ pleasant activity. In his studied opinion she was pushing it as much to prove to herself that she was better as for any other reason. He wasn't about to complain, though.

Wendy entertained a glimmer of hope the pain might stay away altogether, and thus far the day had proved her out, her normal routine plugging along without incident. The evening meal preparations were well along. Karl was out east somewhere, putting the powersled through its paces as a hovercraft, but he'd promised faithfully to be back home by five. She took a calculating look at the stock pot simmering on the stove, and padded back to their room.

Pulling open the drawer of her nightstand, she extracted a thin, corduroy-bound book, plopped down on the bed, and started writing.

_Dear Journal,_

_Karl gave me a funny look when I asked if he had  
any pens with green ink. But the blue pen gave  
out and I've just always liked the way it looks on  
the page. Still no headache today. I think he's  
trying to hide from me how much  
he's worrying. Kinda the same way I'm hiding  
it from him. He promised me he wouldn't peek at  
what I write here, and I believe him.  
I hope he can resist the temptation, because  
it wouldn't make him happy. I know that much._

_I'm scared. I really don't think about it, not directly,  
you know? Don't want to. But I can't help it.  
Ten out of sixteen. That's what keeps going  
through my head. Only six of them lived. And  
they were all prime specimens. Yeah, I know,  
Phoebe lived, and she was a vixen, too, and if  
Karl isn't exaggerating, she was enough like  
me to be my clone. That's something, I  
guess. But it could be a fluke. He was  
unconscious for most of the procedure. How  
would he know if the headaches are normal?  
It's not like they told him._

_Yesterday was good. Parts of it were really,  
really good. Karl told me how he'd spent a few  
years getting very familiar with  
the female anatomy, and all I can say to that  
is, "Summa cum loudly!" I've never been a  
one-and-done girl when it comes to that, but  
this is a whole 'nother next-level thing here.  
Thirty? Forty, maybe? I wasn't counting. Once  
he got me stoked good and proper it seemed  
like they were coming every couple or three  
minutes. And with my improved anatomy,  
courtesy of his blood transfusion, neither of  
us got exhausted. Hell, I'm not even sore.  
Hunger was what finally stopped us. I'll have  
to see what we can do if we have some food  
near the bed. Pace ourselves, as it were. Of  
course, we won't get any actual work done, but  
somehow I don't think he'll care much. Maybe  
I'll get the chance one day to - No. Never mind._

_He's due back any minute now.  
I think I'll go check on th_

When Karl found her she was a tight knot on the floor, nearly blind with pain. It was a long night for both of them.

##

_** Monday 26 June 2017 – 6:00pm **_

Vertigo. Headaches. Nausea that beggared description. And now this.

Karl pulled another blanket out of the closet and carried it into their room. "This is the last one, Hon. And I turned the thermostat all the way up."

"Th-th-thanks." She huddled herself into the tightest ball she could manage.

The wolverine climbed in alongside her and cradled her. "It's about thirty-five degrees in here now. The system can probably achieve forty before it hits its ceiling. I'd feel uneasy making it any hotter than that. Even if you _are_ feeling cold, your core temperature is normal."

"D-d-d-don't l-l-like n-normal m-m-much."

"I know, Babe. I'm sorry. Wish there was something more I could do. As soon as I get that gyro fixed …"

"Y-y-yeah." She tried not to let slip that another headache was beginning. "We'll g-g-g-go." _If I don't die from cranial tintinnabulation first._ "You j-j-just d-do what y-y-you have t-to."

He stared down into her pale eyes, pain in his own, and opened his mouth to speak. She stopped him. "N-no! J-j-just g-go! Work!"

As if pulling himself out of a quagmire he slid off the bed and shambled out the door. Wendy buried her head under the blankets, leaving only her nose exposed, and shivered.

##

_** elsewhere **_

_It had the answer. Much good it did._

_The Overlord's material form lay at length in the central chamber of its fortress. An occasional slight twitch of claw or tendril gave the only indications that it still lived. It could feel now that its time was short._

_In some way it had yet to fathom, upon absorbing the essence of its former pawn it must have taken in some sort of arcane virus. Unfelt, unknown, it had eaten away at the Overlord from the inside. Millions of cycles, yea, hundreds of millions had passed since the last disease had been eradicated from this world. The Overlords were physically invincible because they had removed all physical threats. No living Overlord had ever experienced illness of any sort. They'd made sure it couldn't happen … so this one had no idea what might be done in the way of healing itself. All its efforts over the last portion of a cycle, all its mental tricks, all its sorcery, had no more effect on the infection than waving a feather in a hurricane._

_And now the Others had gathered outside. The defenses of its lair relied in a large part on the Overlord's own mind. As its psyche crumbled, so did the walls. They would be here soon, and death would swiftly follow._

_It considered, briefly, trying to warn them away. There was a possibility that whatever was killing it might not die with it. Would the disease bring the end of the race? Would the Others be able to contain it? Would they even understand what was happening?_

_The outer wall fell. It sensed the eager minds pressing in, and gave a despondent shrug. What did it care if the race died out? It didn't owe the rest of them anything. They were here to kill it, to eat it. Hatred, treachery, and murder had been the watchword of its species since first they became self-aware._

_Dully, it considered its options, and came to a decision._

_So be it._

_The Overlord released the last barriers, and the ravenous horde descended._

##

_** Thursday 29 June 2017 – 9:00am **_

If Wendy had been feeling even remotely normal, this experience would have thrilled her. Riding in a hovercraft was different from any other mode of transport she'd ever tried. For one thing the ride was incredibly smooth, sort of like piloting a large boat over a glassy lake … if the lake had slopes and dips. Additionally it was very quiet. The lack of any contact with the ground combined with the excellent insulation he'd used gave Karl's unique craft an almost surreal level of silence.

But she did, in fact, feel positively crummy. She awoke before dawn with a headache that segued into an episode of nausea that denied her any breakfast. Over the last hour she'd developed sharp, shooting pains in both legs. This served to take her mind off the queasiness, but she found that to be shallow comfort. As Karl guided them around a section of forest, she asked, "Do you know this guy, or is he just …" She winced and gave a small grunt in response to a particularly vicious stab of pain. "… just someone you know _about_?"

"We've met once. He's the closest neurologist I know of." Glancing her way, he added, "At a minimum he'll be able to get you some heavy-duty painkillers."

"That would be good." She settled into her seat, trying yet again to find a comfortable position. "I apologize for this morning. I know I threw off your schedule."

"Honey, you _are_ my schedule. And don't worry about it. It's maybe two hundred fifty or so klicks to Edmonton now. We'll get there by eleven, barring accidents." He reached over and took her paw. "And we'll see about getting this marriage thing tied down nice and legal while we're there."

She gave him a weak smile and kissed the back of his paw, wincing again.

Karl was putting a heroic level of effort into keeping the worry off his face. He didn't want her to know just how frightened he really was. He'd be the last person on earth to admit it, but the same thing was going through his mind that had been haunting her thoughts.

Ten out of sixteen. Five-eighths. A sixty-two-point-five percent mortality rate. And she hadn't the advantage of a huge cadre of experts to monitor her progress.

He edged his speed up just a little more, his muzzle setting in a grim line.

##


	3. Chapter 2 Answers:     Not Part A

_**Chapter Two – Answers … Not – Part A**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**A bit beyond perception's reach  
****I sometimes believe I see  
****that life is two locked boxes  
****each containing the other's key.**

_**-Piet Hein**_

##

_** Monday 03 July 2017 – 11:30am – Edmonton, Alberta **_

Wide, welcoming doors beckoned the couple into the skyscraper's lobby and the blessed relief of air conditioning. They walked over to look at the directory, and Wendy took the opportunity to lean heavily on the big wolverine. He glanced down in concern. "You okay?"

"Just a little worn down. I feel like I could wring water out of my fur."

"Yeah, the humidity's a tad oppressive, for sure, and this heat is very unusual for this area. Daily highs this time of year usually stay in the low-to-mid twenties. But thirty-four? Pretty sticky. Reminds me of a sauna."

"Or a steambath. A flea could starve on the difference."

"Heh. Got that right." He pointed at a name. "Twenty-seventh floor. Come on."

* * *

Doctor Emilio Tann was a compact sort of person, economical in his movements and pointedly direct in the series of questions he leveled at the vixen. Some of them irritated her, some she found more than slightly insulting, but she figured he probably got a _lot of kooks in his line of work and had to weed them out quickly. It had taken Karl a great deal of wheedling (and what amounted to a hefty bribe) to get Wendy moved up in the doctor's appointment queue. The wolverine suspected that her fascinating litany of symptoms was as big a draw for the neurologist as the money. Be that as it may, here they were. Doctor Tann, an obvious hybrid of probably-lion and something-with-very-large-eyes, wasted no time in chit-chat. As soon as the new-patient questionnaire was complete, he had a vial of her blood drawn and began with the poking and prodding and bending._

"Please stand here. Extend your arms forward. Now try to push my paws apart." He grunted in surprise when she did so without effort. "Well. No problems with _that_ system." After several more such tests, and an equal number of surprises, he sat down and wrote for a few minutes. Looking back at Wendy, he asked, "Do you participate in the martial arts?"

"Ah … well, yes, I suppose you could say that."

"Do you take regular classes?"

"Yes. I do."

"And in which discipline?"

"Um …" She looked at Karl for help. He answered for her, "Freestyle."

"Freestyle? Like American Karate?"

"No," he responded, "more like a mix of various eastern styles. Eskrima, silat, kung fu, judo, tai chi, and a couple others."

The doctor blinked at him. "I see." Turning back to Wendy he continued, "And have you been injured in any of these training sessions?"

"Ah … no. Not that I'd say."

"Not at all? Practitioners of judo and silat in particular tend to collect cuts and sprains and broken bones and nerve damage." He examined her face closely. "Yet you have no scars at all. Any on your body?"

She and Karl glanced at each other. Doctor Tann caught the interchange and allowed himself a piece of a smile. "So you _do_ have some injuries. Let's see them."

"They don't have anything to do with my martial arts training."

"Indeed. Yet they may have quite a lot to do with your symptoms. Where were you injured?"

"Um … on my … front."

"Hm. Would you like me to call a nurse to stand with you?"

"No. That won't be necessary as long as Karl's here."

"That I can believe." He rose and went to the door. "Please remove your blouse and any underthings and put that gown on. I'll be back in a few minutes." And he closed the door behind him.

Wendy sighed, "I hadn't thought about this. These scars are going to be tricky to explain."

"Eh. They look old. You _could_ claim them to be the only lasting reminder of a marriage that ended half a dozen years ago. That is technically true."

She dimpled. "So that lying-without-lying ability of yours shows itself to be useful after all."

He couldn't help returning her grin. "I am quite sure I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Oh, quite." She shrugged out of her top and bra and slid into the light gown.

When Dr. Tann knocked and came in he had her lie on her back and asked, "Precisely where are your scars?"

Wendy hiked up her gown to just under her breasts and pointed. The doctor's muzzle drew down into a hard, thin line and he glanced up at Karl. Looking back at Wendy, he said, "These were the result of no accident."

"No, doctor, they weren't."

He touched one, pinched a bit of her skin between thumb and finger, and rolled the scar line a few times. "You've had these a while."

She said nothing, merely watching his expression.

"Would you like to tell me about it?"

She replied, "My ex-husband did this to me. I almost died."

"That I can well believe." He frowned down at her as her brows knit in obvious pain. "Is that one of the headaches you were describing?"

"… Yes." She turned onto her side and moaned as the pain spiked.

"Doc," said Karl quickly, "do you have something you can give her that will knock out the pain? Something _really_ strong? OTC painkillers hardly touch it."

"Yes. It looks like a really bad migraine from here." He pressed a button on his lab-coat collar and said, "Jeanine, would you get oh-point-two cc's of Special Brew Number Four and come to exam room three, stat?" A tinny voice answered in the affirmative and the doctor turned his attention back to Wendy. "Can you describe what you are feeling?"

She fought back tears as she said through gritted teeth, "Hurts."

"Yes, I know. Where? Front or back?"

"Whole … head."

"More on the right side or the left?"

"Uhnh … hurts … dunno …" She rolled to her back, eyes nailed shut, trembling. "… _hurts_ …" Her words clawed and scratched at the edge of the pit, then plunged into the depths, a sob chasing them.

A short canine femme came in with a small hypodermic needle that had a centimeter of some dark liquid in it, and passed it to the doctor. He quickly pulled up a fold of skin on Wendy's neck and injected it. In thirty seconds she stopped jerking and in thirty more had relaxed noticeably. The doctor tossed the needle into the sharps bin and thanked the nurse, who left.

"What was that?" Karl wanted to know.

"A derivative of topalomine, three NSAIDS, nicotine, a chemical relative of morphine, and a few other compounds."

"Nicotine?"

"Yeah, I know. Counterintuitive. But it works. She'll be out of it for at least an hour. The blood work should be done by then." He worked the controls of the exam bed, flattening it out and lengthening it somewhat to make it more comfortable for her. "There's a blanket in that cabinet. Would you get it, please?"

Karl did so, and the doctor tucked Wendy in. Then he pulled a rolling stool up next to the bed and examined her eyes in turn, sighing in obvious concern. Catching Karl's attention again, he asked, "This wasn't on the questionnaire, and if you think it's none of my business I'll understand, but were you … at all involved with that situation? Enough to answer some detailed questions?"

Karl, not quite sure what the doctor was getting at, parried with a question of his own. "Before I commit to an answer, do you really think this injury could have anything to do with her headaches, nausea, chills, joint pain, and vertigo?"

"I'm not ruling anything out at this point. My first inclination after going over the list was to check for Lyme disease. But she doesn't have any of the topical symptoms. Or it could be an allergic reaction, although if it is, it's a doozy. Or it could be food-borne, or a retro-virus misbehaving badly, or a brain tumor."

"_Brain_ tumor?"

"Not very likely. We'll have a better idea once her blood work comes back." He cocked his head to the side. "You didn't answer my question."

The big wolverine considered the other fur for a few moments, and shrugged. "Yes, you could say I was involved. I don't see how that could have a bearing, though."

"It may not. Did you know her ex?"

"No."

"Never met him, or just didn't know him well?"

"I met him once. Briefly."

"Do you know if he had a pattern of abuse?"

Karl nodded. "Very much so. That's why she left him." He moved around to stand by Wendy's head.

"Was he trying to kill her when he did this?"

"I am certain of it."

"Really? Did she say so?"

"No." He stroked her headfur gently, watching her breathe. "She was in no condition to tell me anything at the time. I stopped him from finishing the job."

"Stopped him? They were fighting?"

"No. He had … tied her down."

"… Torture? He **_tortured_** her?"

"Yes."

Dr. Tann raised an eyebrow and rolled the seat back a few centimeters. "You mean …" He pointed at Wendy's torso. "… you _saw_ that happen?"

"Part of it."

"And you stopped him."

"I did."

"So … you saved her life."

"Yes."

The other fur mulled that over for a few moments. "And how long ago was that?"

Meeting the smaller fellow's gaze, Karl asked, "Doctor, would you give me some sort of clue as to where this is going?"

"I'm just trying to fill in pieces of the puzzle. Her symptoms are quite unusual, and I imagine the cure won't be anything straightforward."

"Ah. Basic research."

"If you like. Cases such as these can be quite vexing. Sometimes the most innocuous bit of information holds the key to a cure." He paused to let that sink in, and then added, "And you haven't told me when this occurred."

"Her divorce was final in August of 2010."

Dr. Tann realized peripherally that the big fur hadn't exactly answered his question, but he let it slide for the moment. "And you knew them before the attack?"

"I knew her. I'd never met him."

The doctor's eyes narrowed somewhat. "But you were there when he attacked her. Was that before or after the divorce?"

"After."

"So he cut her up in a fit of jealousy?"

"Hardly. I don't think he knew I existed. He attacked her because he was a raving lunatic."

"Oh. Well, that doesn't help much."

"Why?"

"I thought he might have used some kind of poison on the knife."

"I don't believe so. Her recuperation after the attack was surprisingly short. She has a very robust constitution."

"Huh. No, I suppose not. I've never heard of a poison that would hang around in the system for half a dozen years before causing any problems."

Karl smiled a little at that. "Neither have I. What we were hoping is that you could find some kind of functional link between all these symptoms, and prescribe a medication or a treatment regimen that will give her some relief." He nodded at the snoozing vixen. "This is a good start."

"Eh. It's a stop-gap measure. She can't take that stuff in the long term. It would be worse than the headaches."

"Somehow I doubt she'd agree with you."

"Well, it isn't safe. I can't prescribe it." He picked up Wendy's file and flipped a few pages. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask some more questions."

##

_** Wednesday 05 July 2017 – 2:15pm – Edmonton, Alberta **_

Wendy gingerly shook her head. "I don't like it."

"I'm not too fond of the situation either, but I don't see that we have any choice." He negotiated a left turn, guiding their rental car through the downtown traffic. "If that blood sample he took gets into the wrong paws …"

"Yeah, I know. I still think you're taking an awful chance."

He grinned at her, his eyes sparkling. "But Dear One, this is exactly the sort of thing I trained for."

She leaned over close and kissed the side of his muzzle. "You absolutely _must_ be careful. I can_not_ lose you."

"I'm more worried about losing _you_, one way or the other. We have to get your condition fixed. You can't live like this."

"Tell me about it," she mumbled.

"And I have to get that sample back. I was afraid Dr. Tann was going to call the cops on us when he couldn't identify your blood type."

"You've got a point. He half-believed he had an alien on his paws." She nodded at a building down the street. "There's the courthouse."

He pulled into a space in the lot just beyond the big building, got out, and hopped around to the passenger side so he could help Wendy out. She'd had a bad morning (_not that they aren't all bad these days_, she thought, _but this one was especially rough_) and leaned on him as they walked inside. Ghosts of the pain that had assaulted her lower legs still skimmed past every few minutes, giving her a slight limp. She asked, "You got the license?"

He patted a pocket and answered, "And the Registration papers. The judge will need to sign it just as soon as we're done. Then we can go immediately and file my updated will."

"Let's not talk about your will, dear. It won't be an issue." She looked up and caught his eye. "Right?"

He felt it wisest simply to agree. "Right." They ambled over to the guard at the front desk and got his attention. "We're here to get married. I understand you provide official witnesses?"

"Yes, sir. If you'll just go down the hall there to room 106 …"

##

_** Friday 07 July 2017 – 8:30am – Seattle, Washington **_

Karl and Wendy were waiting by the door when the receptionist arrived to open up. She stared at them for a moment: he was cradling the vixen in the crook of one arm while she cried quietly into his chest. "Are you all right?"

"We need to see Dr. Winters as soon as possible."

"Come right in. He'll be here in a few minutes." She hurried them back into the secondary waiting room where Karl started filling in the forms she gave him.

Dr. Winters, a very old bear, arrived at a quarter of nine. He was all business, read through the new-patient information and the medical history, and got right to work putting Wendy through her paces. His conclusions, such as they were, coincided rather closely with those of Dr. Tann. The fact that Wendy's blood didn't match any known type intrigued him.

"Are you a hybrid, Ms. Gulo? You don't look like one."

"N-not as f-far as I know." Her extreme chills had come back during the exam. "M-m-maybe our f-family just has … odd b-blood?"

"Maybe. But not as odd as this. Fewer than half your type markers can be identified at all, and of those, only a pawful belong to any alopecoid genotype. I'd like to send a sample off to the lab in San Francisco."

Karl jumped in before Wendy could say anything. "Is there an expert there? We'd be happy to go and see him personally."

"Yes there is, but Dr. Skurrinay is female. You'll have to go see _her_, not _him_."

"Whatever. Do you have her address?"

"My office manager does." He noted with alarm that Wendy was looking a bit green around the gills. "Young lady, do you need to visit the rest room?"

She nodded. "Karl? Don't think … I can … walk."

He scooped her up and zipped out into the hall. He came back by himself half a minute later and asked, "Do you think the condition is blood-borne, doctor?"

"Could be. The array of symptoms is pretty strange, though." He flipped through the file they had brought and pulled out a CAT scan and two MRIs that Dr. Tann had supplied. "We can rule out cancer, and it doesn't _seem_ to be auto-immune. But Dr. Skurrinay's lab is one of the best in the country. If it can be sorted out, she can do it."

They both heard a weak, "Karl?" and the big wolverine zipped out of the room.

##

_** Monday 10 July 2017 – 10:30am – San Francisco, California **_

"Dr. Winters was right," said the petite squirrel femme. "This is the oddest blood sample I've ever run across." Her eyes glinted with excitement at the challenge of solving this puzzle. Karl wasn't too sure he liked her approach, though. She wanted to check Wendy into the teaching hospital there at the University and observe her condition twenty-four hours a day for a while.

The vixen didn't have _nearly_ as much resistance to the idea. Starting with a ferocious headache an hour before dawn, she had cycled through all of her symptoms twice this morning. Dr. Skurrinay had witnessed the latest bouts of nausea, chills, and extremity pain (Wendy's paws had gotten into the act for this one) and was examining what looked to be hundreds of different readout screens from her various monitors. She was only pulled away when another crippling headache hit.

Karl stayed by Wendy's side constantly, holding her paw or stroking her head … or keeping a pail nearby for her almost-dry heaves. His eyes pled silently with the doctor for her to do something. But the squirrel was completely preoccupied with her equipment. She kept popping in and out of the room while she checked on this apparatus or that, and hardly had more than a word or two for Wendy.

_It would seem_, Karl thought darkly, _that 'bedside manner' was a class she skipped in medical school._ He didn't want to press the issue, though, not if she could help Wendy in the long term. Dr. Winters had recommended her very highly. But one thing that really got under Karl's skin was the fact that Dr. Skurrinay had cut off Wendy's painkillers. She said it was important that she be able to see the vixen's "pure reaction" to her symptoms. But from where Karl stood, all that accomplished was the multiplication of Wendy's suffering. He'd just about had enough.

By eleven o'clock, with the headache showing no sign of abating and Wendy being reduced to half-conscious, sobbing moans, he demanded that she be given something for the pain.

The squirrel's reply was clinically deadpan. "No. That would compromise my readings." She didn't even look up at him.

"I don't give a rat's ass for your readings." A huge fist dropped onto the desk beside her monitor unit. "You will treat her pain. Now."

That got the doctor's attention. In some alarm she slid off the other side of the chair and scurried to the door. Conferring with the nurse there in low tones, she eyed the big fur's stormy expression and then hesitantly stepped over to a cabinet. She hurriedly prepared a syringe and gave Wendy an injection. Almost immediately the vixen relaxed. In less than a minute her even breathing signaled slumber. Meanwhile, the doctor high-tailed out of the room, gunwale awash.

Several minutes later a tall, thin canine in a gray pinstripe suit entered, flanked by a pair of large orderlies, and confronted Karl. "Sir, my name is Alfred Sporter. I am the legal director of this facility."

The oversized wolverine looked up at him. "And?"

"I am going to have to ask you to leave the premises."

His voice soft and carefully modulated, Karl said, "And your reason for that would be?"

Mr. Sporter didn't miss the implied warning in that low reply. He took a step back. "You threatened one of our doctors. For that, you must leave."

Karl gave him a narrow eye for one long breath, and then stood. Mr. Sporter's eyes followed his progress upward, noting that his headfur offered to brush the light fixture; he backed off another couple of steps.

"I threatened no one." The orderlies might not have been there for all the attention Karl paid to them. "What I did was insist that your 'doctor' _act_ like one and treat her patient."

"That's not how she explained it."

"Other furs' overweening capacity for hyperbole is not my problem."

The lawyer blinked a couple of times. "Sorry?"

"You, personally, have nothing to be sorry for. Yet. If there is an apology to be made, it should come from Dr. Skurrinay."

This encounter wasn't going _at all_ the way Mr. Sporter had thought it would. He cleared his throat nervously. "Well, you know, um, in a case where it is your word against hers, I will, uh, naturally assume that she is being, uh, truthful."

"Then you would naturally be wrong." He pointed at Wendy. "Dr. Skurrinay was doing absolutely _nothing_ to combat her pain. Despite the fact that the very reason we came here was to find some relief for it, all our time got sucked up in measuring how much she hurt. We already _knew_ that it hurt. Her headaches are excruciating. Odd as it may sound to you, allowing her patient to writhe in agony for hours seemed somehow _wrong_ to me. As you can see, it was very simple for her to alleviate my wife's pain, once she understood the importance of doing so."

"Ah … um … well, that is, you see …"

Karl crossed his arms over his vast expanse of chest and waited.

"The, ah, doctor's research in this field is, ahm, widely … um, recognized for its, ah … exhaustive nature." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "She is very thorough."

"I can appreciate a close attention to detail. I have a strong affinity for minutiae myself. However, what she was doing would be difficult to differentiate from torture. And frankly, she seemed to be deriving a disturbing amount of pleasure from observing my wife's pain. If that is the status quo here, you can believe me when I say we will be _most_ glad to leave."

Mr. Sporter appeared willing to take that as an out. "Very well. I will communicate to Dr. Skurrinay that she will not need to see you again."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

The trio turned to leave, but Karl said, "Mr. Sporter? If you would, kindly get a reference from Dr. Skurrinay to another neurologist. One that takes his craft seriously."

The thin fellow's back stiffened noticeably. He gave Karl a one-quarter profile for a couple of seconds, and then offered a curt nod before exiting.

##


	4. Chapter 2 Answers: Not Part B

_**Chapter Two – Answers … Not – Part B**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Wednesday 12 July 2017 – 6:45pm – Chicago, Illinois **_

The regularity of Wendy's symptoms frightened Karl. It was almost as if her condition were being intelligently driven. He knew, for example, that her next major bout of nausea would hit in about an hour.

The problem was … so did she. And she did not, let us say, look forward to it with relish.

They'd been to see the hematologist that Dr. Skurrinay recommended, and had spent the entire day mainly just hanging around in his exam rooms, cooling their heels. She obliged the good doctor with a rather spectacular bout of nausea at one point, and had to be moved to another room while that one was cleaned. The answers he got from his blood tests weren't much help either. The most he'd been able to offer them was that he thought she might have some hitherto-unknown retrovirus, and that it was adversely affecting her digestive system. He'd given them a reference to another specialist in the city, one who was known to have done some ground-breaking work in pain management. Wendy had an appointment to see him the next day.

Of course they knew quite well that a retrovirus had nothing to do with her pain, but neither one felt that the unvarnished truth would be wise in this case. Wendy (and to an even larger extent, Karl) had no desire to see herself locked away somewhere while a bunch of curious scientists extracted small bits of her for study.

A thunderstorm earlier had offered a bit of respite from the unrelenting heat of the previous week, and it was still relatively comfortable outside. They had an early supper at one of the small bistros near their hotel, and were ambling back along Michigan Avenue in the general direction of their room when an ad for an art exhibit caught Wendy's eye. She stopped to read about it.

Karl's situational awareness was second to none. If something fishy was going on, he knew about it. But this situation didn't _get_ fishy until it was right on top of them. He was just swinging his gaze back to the north when a willowy Afgan femme walked out of a boutique next door and pulled up short not three meters from them. She stared holes in the big fellow for two seconds, and then blurted out, "Beorn?"

Wendy's head whipped around, and she took a step to get up next to him.

Karl's muzzle dropped open. He said nothing for a moment, and then answered, "Pamela!"

The other femme was very smartly dressed in a knee-length frock. Wendy could tell it was either a true designer outfit or a very convincing knock-off, complete with coordinating jewelry and a shoulder-purse, all in shades of green that set off her long blond-and-silver fur to remarkable effect. She had the air of one who'd been around, one who had many years of hard-won experience behind her, and she carried herself with an easy grace that hinted of great self-confidence. Though Wendy judged her to be pushing fifty, the lady was strikingly beautiful. No other words escaped her as she stepped gradually closer. She was a good fifteen centimeters taller than Wendy, and the vixen tried not to feel intimidated. Stopping well inside Karl's personal space, her eyes pinned his ears back for a few seconds, and then she dealt him a vicious slap across the muzzle.

Wendy winced, but realized that, in the first place such a blow could hardly damage the big fur, and in the second he could have pulled out of the way easily enough if he wanted to, letting the femme's paw simply ride his cheek around. That he _didn't_ do that gave her much to think on. She glanced up at Karl. "You two know each other, I take it?"

Pamela's muzzle twisted in distaste. "Knew. Past tense. But 'knew' in every sense of the word."

Karl opened his mouth to say something, but she jabbed a finger at his face. His muzzle snapped shut quickly.

Eyes dangerously narrow, she gritted out, "I don't want to hear any lame apologies from _**you**_. You were a _mistake_. I finally realized that. Let's keep it that way, shall we?" Turning to Wendy, she offered, "I hope you don't have any long-term plans for this loser. Word to the wise."

"Pam if I could …"

Her finger was back in his face. "Shut. Up. You think I don't remember? You think I don't know how you use language? You're like a snake with a wounded bird. I'm not stupid. Not anymore."

"Look, I'm sorry about …"

"NOT. ONE. WORD."

He wisely subsided.

"Like I said, chicky, don't make any plans that involve this creep. He won't be there for you." She gave Karl another hard stare, flipped him the finger, and stalked off to the south.

When she was out of earshot, Karl said, "I'm sorry about that."

"Who is she?"

"An old girlfriend."

"Obviously you didn't part on the best of terms."

"Do you recall my telling you about my misspent youth?"

She nodded.

"Pamela was one of the casualties. One of … quite a few."

"Sowed some wild oats, huh?"

"Honey, I could feed _Scotland_ with the oats I sowed."

She chuckled. "Well, you certainly made an impression on _her_." Taking his arm and steering him back on course, she continued, "I'm glad she didn't get to keep you, though."

He kissed the top of her head and answered, "So am I."

##

_** Friday 14 July 2017 – 7:00am **_

"Is Dr. Cowper's potion helping?"

"Yeah … some." Wendy looked up at him through slitted eyes. "I can still see. Just don't … ask me to run any marathons."

She lay half-propped-up against him on the hotel bed while he tenderly massaged the back of her neck. Neither of them was completely sure if it helped the pain, but it made them both feel better about it. The drapes were fully drawn, the room's only illumination a dim, orange glow that leaked from the open bathroom door where a paw-held fur dryer was mounted on the wall. Any more would aggravate her condition.

Carefully turning to a slightly more comfortable position, she asked, "When's the appointment?"

"Ten-thirty."

"Umff. Three and a half … hours."

"You want one of those sleeping pills?"

"If … you don't mind."

The pill, and a glass of water, she accepted gratefully. He watched over her, gently stroking her fur for the quarter-hour it took her to fall asleep. Once she was out, he eased off the bed and resumed his place in front of his suitcase computer. Just because they had this to deal with didn't mean he could abdicate his responsibility to keep tabs on their enemies … or the other factions that were searching for them. He'd managed to install another worm program into one of the ISB's Midwest Control Center computers three days earlier, and had found it surprisingly informative. It seemed that Hemanth Rajid was old friends with the local director and the two of them had joined forces to try to locate their wayward former operative. _They'll be sweeping the greater Chicago area over the next couple of weeks. We'll have to keep as low a profile as possible._

He was also able to determine that the international consortium of policing agencies still had many of the Cartel's North American operations bottled up. That was good news for him. But a few of the internal emails he intercepted seemed to hint that the situation in central Europe was about to detonate. Long-term infiltration by certain radical religious-terrorism groups was coming to a head. _There was plenty of evidence of that when I was there a few months back. Looks like Gafah is making a grab for Germany. __That'll__ cost tens of thousands of lives, even in the best-case scenario. _He snorted in disgust. _I should see about taking him out of the picture one of these days … in the not-too-distant future._

He finished up and moved back to the bed, slipping in beside her with a subtlety that belied his mass. She turned with a soft sound and laid a paw on his chest, which he covered with his own. _My beautiful, precious wife. Sleep, Darling, and awaken well._ And with that thought he segued into a long and earnest prayer for her well-being.

##

_** Tuesday 18 July 2017 – 10:30am **_

Wendy pulled up short and turned to face her husband, pushing him gently toward the glass wall of the skyscraper they'd just left. "Will you please calm down?"

"I wanted to reach over and _pinch_ his _**head**_ off!"

"Yeah, caught that. But you doing violence to every doctor who thinks these symptoms are all psychosomatic won't accomplish anything beyond stirring up trouble, and you know it."

"As if pain of this magnitude could be self-inflicted!" He crossed his arms, his face a black mask of anger. A couple that had been headed in their direction suddenly became intensely interested in a window display; a few seconds later they backtracked several steps and eased into the building.

"I wouldn't dismiss the idea entirely. You, of all people, should know what the mind is capable of doing."

"Hmh." He gave her a long look and then a noncommittal shrug. "I … suppose there's something to that." Drawing a couple of deep breaths, he centered himself. "Oh, well. Water down the river. We can mark _him_ off the list anyway."

"True. Which just leaves us this one epidemiologist." She rummaged in her purse for a couple of seconds before Karl said, "Grant. Alfred Grant. Has his very own complex out in Elk Grove Park."

She glanced up at him with a grin. "Why do I even bother writing anything down?"

"Force of habit. And it gives you something to do." He offered her his arm. "Care for a bit of brunch?"

"I _should_ eat something," she replied, slipping her small paw into the crook of his elbow. "What little breakfast I could get down didn't _stay_ down long."

The big wolverine studied his wife. Her weight was dropping, and it was mass she could ill afford to miss. "At least you won't have to worry about that for several more hours."

"Eh. Maybe." She frowned up at him. "I still don't know what to think about how … how _orderly_ these symptoms are. It's too weird."

"Too weird for the doctors, seems like."

"But you're right. I should stoke the fires. Got anything in mind?"

"So happens I do. How do you feel about Polynesian?"

About twenty minutes later they found the restaurant he'd had in mind and were shortly tucking in. Halfway through the meal, Karl stopped to watch Wendy eat. Her fork was moving between the plate and her mouth with astonishing speed, and she was chewing and swallowing just as rapidly. It was only when she reached for her water glass and sloshed a decent portion of it onto the table that she stopped.

"Damn! How'd that happen?" She looked up at Karl, noting his concerned expression. "What? What'd I do?"

"You were … moving very quickly."

"Moving? What are you talking about?"

"Your movements were … extremely rapid. As if you were … well, I can't think of any better way to describe it. As if you were Augmenting your speed."

"Augm … but … but, Karl, I can't do that!"

"Um, I'd say that would be '_couldn't_ do that'. As in past tense."

"Damn. Damn, damn."

"I'm thinking this is related to your symptoms."

"Oh, you think? Damn it, I didn't _want_ to be an Augment!"

"And I never intended to make you one. But it is what it is."

"You've said that before."

"You have a good memory." He cocked his head and studied her. "Have you noticed anything else?"

"… Like what?"

"Anything unusual."

She hooted a laugh that won her a few stares. Leaning across the table toward him, she said, "Just my whole, entire, fucking _**life**_ for the last few months."

"I guess I asked for that."

"I guess you did." She leaned back and thought about his question. "But, okay, yeah."

"Yeah? You mean you _have_ noticed something?"

"I think so. These last couple of days I've caught myself wondering occasionally why everyone else seems to be so pokey-slow. Like nofur's in any kind of a hurry to do anything. But … well, all things being relative …"

"I see your point. Your senses are speeding up."

She sent him a sober look. "That's kind of … spooky."

"Spooky it may be, but it's probably something you'll just have to get used to."

Pondering her condition for a bit, she asked, "Did Phoebe … was she … able to do that sort of thing?"

"… Well … yes. She also had a rudimentary form of telepathy."

"Telepathy!"

He shushed her with a cautionary paw. "Not so loud."

"Are you saying I could turn into a mind reader?"

"I'm not saying anything of the sort. I have no idea what your Augments will be." He gave a one-shoulder shrug. "Other than speed, obviously. And I don't have any notion about how fast you'll eventually be, so don't ask."

"Oh. Okay." A couple of slow blinks went by. "Was she really fast?"

"Phoebe? Yes. She was the third fastest on the team after Yvonne and Rommel."

"Faster than _you?_"

"A bit. I couldn't catch her if she didn't want to be caught."

"Holy cow. And two others were even faster?"

"Yep. Rom could catch Phoebe without too much trouble. And Yvonne, as far as I know, was the fastest land-based creature ever to live. She could cruise at ninety or a hundred klicks for hours, and hit a hundred fifty if she needed to."

She digested that information, her brow slightly furrowed.

He studied her thoughtful expression. "You know, considering how similar you and she are – were? Anyway, your marked similarities in other areas might indicate similar reaction to Augmentation. But remember," he admonished, "that you received yours in a completely different fashion. You're setting a precedent."

"Yeah, well, that's me all over. A regular trendsetter."

Without taking his eyes from her face, Karl resumed his lunch. A few moments later, after Wendy pulled out her watch to check the time, she followed his example. _Maybe if I can eat enough early I won't have that much to keep down later._

##

_** Thursday 20 July 2017 – 7:00pm **_

Wendy wasn't sure which of her symptoms she detested most. Right now, though, she was too cold to think that hard.

She'd had the right of it, though. Whatever was afflicting her had a strong methodical streak. Each morning she awoke to a pounding, grinding headache that required stiff analgesics. Then her long bones and various joints would begin to ache, the pains dogging her until an hour or so before noon. She'd get a brief respite in the middle of the day before the joint pain started back up. That would flare and subside, ebb and flow, the rest of the day. Chills and nausea defined her evenings, frequently foiling her efforts at keeping her gorge under control. It became her habit to eat as much as she could early in the day, since she couldn't count on supper doing her any good. Fortunately for her sanity the symptoms would let up some time between eight and nine at night, allowing her to alleviate her exhaustion to some extent.

"K-Karl?" she said to the big fur, who was currently serving as a combination blanket/heater, "what ab-bout a h-heating p-pad?"

"Is it getting worse?"

She gave him a jittery nod. "F-f-freezing."

The last few days his warmth had been enough to keep her – well, not comfortable, exactly, but not too uncomfortable. Tonight was worse … much worse. He reached over and got the infrared thermometer from the nightstand and placed it in her ear. "Sweetheart, you're already at thirty-nine-point-two. I'm really afraid to get you any hotter. It'll melt your brain."

"Haven't b-been this c-cold since I f-f-fell in that s-s-stream."

"Hey! Let's try something else first, okay? I'll run you a hot bath."

"… Ok-k-kay. B-but hurry."

He did. Four minutes later he lowered her into the steaming water. She gasped and then breathed a relieved sigh. "Oh. Oh, Honey. That's better."

"I got it as hot as I thought you'd be able to stand it without damaging your skin."

"Screw my skin. It'll heal. This is lovely." She stretched to her length in the hotel's big bathtub. "We should have thought of this before." Sliding down until just her eyes, ears and muzzle remained dry, she took a deep breath of the steamy vapor. "Oh, that's good. Heating from the inside, too."

Karl's relief was a nearly physical thing. He positioned himself on the floor beside the tub and smiled at her. "I'm really, _really_ glad."

"Not as glad as I am, I bet."

He reached over and stroked the fur between her eyes …

_The light flush of energy started at his fingertip_

_and spread_

_through her mind_

_heart_

_being_

_all_

_and it was love_

_and it was hers _

_all hers_

_he was hers _

_all hers _

_all of him_

_belonging_

_loving_

_longing_

_knowing _

_giving_

_more than she could understand_

_or take in …_

A startled squeak escaped as she gasped and went under. He jumped to his feet, plunged his paws in, and hauled her out. "Wendy! Honey! Are you all right?"

Spluttering, she stared at him in wonder and asked, "What the _**hell**_ was that?" She immediately started shivering again.

"You jerked as if you'd been shot. What happened?"

"C-c-cold!"

He sat her back in the water where she scooted down until only her head above her muzzle was visible. Large, solemn eyes held his for several seconds before she spoke. "Oh. My. God."

"What?"

"You love me."

"… Yes. I do."

"You really love me."

"I know."

"No! You don't understand! You _love_ me!"

"Um …"

"You love me … and _**I**_ know it!"

"I thought we'd established that fact some time ago. In fact, if memory serves …"

She was only following him with maybe a third of her attention. "I don't see how … I mean, yeah, I knew you loved me, but … there's knowing and then there's _know_ knowing. Now I _**'know'**_ know." She met his gaze and grinned. "You know?"

For Karl this conversation was slipping quickly into the realm of the surreal. "Uh … I'm not following you."

"Touch my forehead again."

"Uh … okay." Gingerly he placed a fingertip on her head.

She waited, frowned, and said, "Huh. Go fig."

"You want to let me in on the secret?"

"I … that is, I think that I saw your … emotions."

"… Saw … my …"

"Um, maybe not 'saw'. Felt? Perceived? It's hard to explain."

"It must be," he said with a grin. "You aren't doing a very good job."

She splashed a scant pawful of water on him. "Gimme a break. It never happened before."

"And what, exactly, happened?" he asked, flicking the water from his face.

"I got a taste of what you were feeling."

"Really? Okay." He looked up at the ceiling, his brow knitted. "Caleb could do that."

"Caleb?"

"Delta. He was a psychologist of sorts."

"Ah. So … 'Delta' means he wasn't as strong as you, right?"

"Yeah. He was maybe five times as strong as a normal fur. But he never really made a habit of using strength to get his work done. He was much more likely to hypnotize someone and make that fur do the job for him."

"Good at it, huh?"

"It was eerie. He insisted there was no magic involved, but it was hard to tell the difference sometimes." He stuck the tip of one finger in the water. "Still warm enough?"

"Yeah. Delicious." She waved her paws lazily side-to-side, creating little eddies. "We really should have thought of this before."

"I'm so glad it helps."

"Mm." After a moment of silence she said, "You don't seem very curious."

"About your empathic episode?"

"Yeah."

"It isn't that I'm not curious, because I am, intensely. I just don't know what to make of it yet."

"You _said_ there could be other side effects. 'Perks' you called 'em."

"Yes. But I didn't know what to expect."

"Phoebe had telepathy, right?"

"Of a sort. She couldn't just walk through someone's mind, in particular if that someone didn't want her to. But she was able to forge links with specific, willing furs, so that she could communicate over distance. She did that with the rest of us on the team. It was a lot like talking."

_Sounds like what that feral does with me._ "How'd she figure out she could do it?"

"I don't know. Really, none of us talked much about our 'perks', even among ourselves. She just asked me one day if I'd like to try something, and went about setting up the link. Once she was satisfied it worked, she linked the rest of the team. It replaced radios in a lot of instances, and it was immune to interception."

"Eh. That doesn't sound at all like this."

"No. Is this the first time you've felt it?"

"First time feeling it that … that hard. _Damn_, but that was intense." She caught his gaze again. "And you really, really love me."

"I really, really do."

Eyes closed, she submerged herself as far as she could and still allow for breathing. A couple of minutes passed in silence as Karl sat vigil over her, and then she came up suddenly.

"What's wrong?"

"Gotta … get to …" She waved a paw at the toilet.

"Okay. Here we go." He carried the sodden vixen across the room and held her as she emptied her gut. While she was thus occupied he wrapped her in warmed towels. By the time she was done she was all but cocooned.

Faintly she asked, "Can I have some juice?"

"I'll get it." He deposited her on the bed on his way to the kitchenette.

##

_** 11:50pm **_

Watching the sleeping wolverine beside her, Wendy found herself sighing in wonder again. _Who else has this? Who else in this round world has absolute, indisputable proof of someone else's love? How did I get so lucky?_

Once more, as she'd done four times in the last hour, she placed both paws lightly on each side of his head and leaned against him. Then, as she had each of those other times, she cleared her mind of distraction, of miscellaneous thought, and let herself gently down into the warm, glycerin stream of his emotions.

It was like no other sensation. She'd never suspected, much less experienced, that anyone could be cherished with the depth and intensity that wrapped her in its essence here. Though insubstantial, it was as real and as permanent as the Earth itself. Though wordless, she learned from it all she would ever need to know about affection and respect and desire. Basking in the soundless glow, she drifted, replete, content with her lot in life. _It was all worth it. Everything. My whole, cruddy, misspent, sideways existence up to this point. I'd do it all over again, pain and fear and torture and all, just to feel this, to know this, to hold this love._

She felt the stream slipping away and knew he was waking. He stirred; his eyes opened; he gave her that half-smile, that indulgent little sign that he thought whatever she was doing was unbearably cute. "Making sure I'm still in here?"

"I love you."

"I love you back."

"I wish you could know what this feels like."

"But I don't _need_ it, to know that you love me."

"Maybe so. But I'm so glad this happened. So … excruciatingly glad." She fitted herself more closely to the hard outlines of his torso. "Make love to me."

"Again?"

"Still."

##


	5. Chapter 3 Contact Part A

_**Chapter Three – Contact – Part A**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**His mother had often said,  
**"**When you choose an action, you choose the consequences of that action."  
****She had emphasized the corollary of this axiom even more vehemently:  
****when you desire a consequence  
****you had damned well better take the action that would create it.**

_**-Lois McMaster Bujold**_

##

_** Wednesday 26 July 2017 – 1:00pm – near Indianapolis **_

In a sky as bright and unblemished as a crucible of molten brass, no birds flew. No clouds offered to dim the sun. What few creatures there were that had to be out and about kept as much to the shadows as possible: rats, large and small; pigeons; squirrels; a brace of crows. None wished to expose itself to that merciless orb that hung overhead like a slave-master. None dared the sidewalk or the blistering pavement, preferring the sheltered spots near the blocky buildings. No, the only creatures that ventured out in the sun were those who had no choice. One such made his way down the street, doggedly hurrying from one scant bit of awning to the next.

Wayne Nutu didn't pause as he ducked into the revolving door that fronted his destination. His South African heritage notwithstanding, he stood a little straighter and breathed a little easier once he was inside the spacious, air-conditioned lobby. The venerable motor hotel, situated on Old Highway 40 just east of the city, had seen its heyday some eighty years earlier, as one of the first 'motor lodges' in the state, but had fallen into disfavor in the '70's, finally being boarded up and abandoned a quarter-century ago. Recently, an out-of-town group of investors had bought it and was in the process of 'refurbishing' it. Wayne reflected wryly that this place was only marginally less shabby than the dump Capra had used in Vermont. But at least it had plenty of room.

He took the elevator down two floors to the sub-basement, where the hirsute canine had his information nerve center. Two card-access-only doors later he was standing at his boss' shoulder. Capra glanced up at him. "What kep' yaz?"

"Bloody parking. You'd think when it's forty in the shade people would stay home, or at least stay indoors. There were four cars double-parked across the entrance to the back lot. I had to walk three blocks." He leaned over and took a gander at the monitor. "Whatcha got?"

"Ya know how da doc we talked wit' in Frisco pointed us ta dat outfit in Chicago?"

"Yeah. But that was a dead end."

"An' yaz know as well as I do dat he wuz lyin' t'roo 'is teeth."

That bought him a shrug. "So? Not much _we_ can do about it."

"Yeh, well, I'm t'inkin' mebbe Gulo mighta stuck aroun'. If he's after some kinda relief fer 'is ladyfriend …"

"Wife," Wayne corrected absently.

"Yeh. So dere's gotta be dozens o' dat type o' doc right dere in Chi-town."

"Granted."

"So I gots me a list here o' all da extended-stay places in da area."

Wayne's ears perked up. "Oh, so? Then you've found something or you wouldn't be telling me this."

"I mighta found somethin'." He called up a file and scrolled down its length. It ran to nearly two hundred lines. "Dis is a list o' ever' room or suite dat's been rented under da same name fer da past two weeks."

"Huh. That's some list."

"Yeh. But we got four of us ta put on da job."

"You don't think it's too much of a long shot?"

"Long shots are all we got left, Boyo."

Nodding in agreement, Wayne said, "I'll call Foxworth."

"Make sure Michelle knows, too."

"Isn't her team still going over Gulo's place in Alberta?"

"Dey might be, yeh. But I tol' 'er I'd keep 'er up ta date on what we find, an' dat's what I mean ta do."

"Fair enough."

##

_** Thursday 27 July 2017 – 2:50am – Chicago **_

The thick pile carpet muffled Karl's footfalls as he padded out of the sleeping area of their suite. Stopping at the doorway, he considered his wife as she sat at the tiny kitchenette table. "Hon?"

She glanced his way. "Hi."

"Couldn't sleep again?"

A shrug was his only answer. She took a sip from her teacup – lemongrass Karl thought – and stared at the remains of her latest meal on the tabletop.

He came over and started massaging her shoulders and neck. "Hungry much?"

"All the time." Closing her eyes, she leaned back into him with a tiny sigh. After a minute or so she said, "It is _**SO**_ not fair."

"I agree."

"Why give me a taste of paradise and then yank it away?"

"It doesn't make sense. You're right about that. But I still think it'll come back."

"God, I hope so."

"And it isn't as if you didn't already know …"

"That is NOT the point and you know it!"

"Shh-shh-shh. You're right. It isn't." He worked his way up into her scalp. When he pulled his paw away, it was covered with her rich, auburn headfur. He looked at it in puzzlement for several seconds, long enough for Wendy to notice and turn toward him.

"What is it?"

"Your … fur. It's coming out."

"Oh. Yeah. It started doing that yesterday. Noticed it when I was brushing out my tail." Pulling that portion of her anatomy around to her lap, she drew his attention to the tip. "See these short hairs?"

"Huh. The whole tip of your brush is … did the fur fall out? You shouldn't be shedding your summer coat yet."

"Well!" She giggled softly and chucked him under his muzzle. "I can't believe I figured it out before you did."

"Figured … what …" The light seemed to dawn. "Yes! The same thing happened to me!"

"Exactly." Lifting her tail to get a closer look, she observed, "You can see that what's growing in is of a finer texture than what fell out. It's softer and has a high gloss."

"Like when you were a kit."

"Like when I was a kit."

"Hmm." He turned his face to hers, studying her eyes. "Wow. Clear, bright, and golden, even with all the sleep you _haven't_ been getting. And only the faintest tracery of blood vessels."

"Huh. I hadn't thought to check my eyes yet."

"I'd say the revirescent effect is kicking in."

"… Yeah. I guess so." She gave him a somber look and then stood and moved into a tight hug. "Don't leave me!"

"For Heaven's sake, Honey! What brought that on?"

"I could _**not**_ live without you. Not now that I've _got_ you."

"And you won't have to. Don't worry."

"You say that now. But you don't know what will happen to us down the road."

"I know I'll always love you. I know that much."

"That isn't what I mean, which you understand quite well I think."

"Yes. I know. But you also shouldn't go around borrowing trouble. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

"Evil." She relaxed her hold on him and sat back down, resting an elbow on the table and propping her head on the back of her paw. "There sure is plenty of _that_ to go around, isn't there?"

"There always has been. It's nothing new."

"It's better organized than it used to be, I'll bet."

"Probably."

Reaching over and taking one of his paws, she asked, "What do you think of our chances, long term?"

"Our chances? In what context?"

"Staying alive."

Holding her gaze, he knelt beside her chair. "I'd say our chances were a lot better than average."

"Even with … with everyone that's looking for us?"

"Sure."

"I wish I … were as confident as you."

"It's not like you to be this pessimistic, Honey."

She turned her face away, knuckling one eye. "Experience keeps a dear school."

The catch in her voice tore at his heart. Ever since she'd lost her empathic sense three days ago her mood had been deteriorating. He gathered her close and held her, gently rocking back and forth, as she wept silently.

A few minutes later she excused herself to the bathroom, and to have something to occupy his paws Karl tidied up the kitchenette. _We'll have to send out for more food. Between the two of us, we're eating enough for six these days._ He was just running some water in the sink when a sharp gasp of surprise sent him bounding over to the bathroom.

"Wendy! What's wrong?"

The vixen had been washing her paws and was leaning against the sink, eyes wide. "I …" She pointed at the wall at the end of the tub. "There was … something … there."

"Something? What?"

"I don't know."

Karl examined the area. The wall paper was new, and unmarred. He felt along the surface, but could find no discontinuities of any kind.

"Aiihh!"

He jerked around. "What?"

"It was … I saw it … again." She pointed a shaky finger at the wall in the shower area. "Like … sort of … an outline … or something. It was yellow."

At that moment Karl heard the shower go on in the suite next to theirs. He knew from the layout of the rooms that the bath areas mirrored each other. So the other shower was just the other side of that wall. On a hunch, he pointed at the shower and asked, "Hon, can you see anything there now?"

"Uh … y-y-y-yeah … it's like … a sort of silhouette."

"Is it moving?"

"… Sort of. Squirming, more like. Can you see it, too?"

"No. But I think what you are seeing is the aura of the fur in the next suite."

She looked at him, her eyes huge. "You serious?"

"It makes sense. If you have empathic abilities, which we know you do …"

"Even if they're on the fritz now."

"Right. Well, I'm not so sure they're 'on the fritz' exactly. They may just be getting comfortable."

Wendy watched the faint outline of the fur in the next room for three minutes until they both heard the water stop. Karl said, "Hey, try something for me."

"What?"

"Close your eyes."

"Huh?"

"If the ability is empathic, you aren't 'seeing' through a wall. You're picking up on the presence of another fur. So whether or not your eyes are open should be immaterial."

"Oh. Okay." She did as he asked, and gasped. "She's moving!"

"She?"

"Yeah … um …" Wendy opened her eyes and looked at him. "She. I know that for sure."

"Wow. Do you know why?"

"Ah … it's just … a female … signature? Um … feeling?" Her pretty muzzle twisting in frustration, she complained, "I don't have the words for it!"

"Can you still sense her?"

"Yeah … um … huh. Well, not so much. I think she's moving away. She's not in the bathroom any more."

Nodding in satisfaction, Karl commented, "Your abilities aren't in remission. They're expanding."

"Karl, this is scary."

"I'm not a bit surprised." He took a step back and said, "Close your eyes and see if you can sense my aura."

"… Yes! _Yes!_ I can! Oh, Honey!" She jumped into his arms. "You're right!"

And then her next headache hit.

##


	6. Chapter 3 Contact Part B

_**Chapter Three – Contact – Part B**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Friday 28 July 2017 – 10:30am **_

Gently closing the door on his exhausted and soundly sleeping wife, Karl gathered up a few items and left their suite, activating the temporary security measures he had installed when they moved in. Five flights down and a quick exit through the rear of the hotel brought him to a narrow street that led to an even narrower alley. He followed that for two blocks to the secure parking deck, extracted his rental car, and drove north on US41 to Gurnee. He turned east and tooled through an industrial area until he came to a group of small warehouses. Driving around to the rear of the complex, he stopped beside one of them. It was in no way remarkable, and apart from the large '23' painted above its door it differed not an iota from its neighbors. That was, of course, the point.

Inside, with the door carefully locked behind him, Karl flipped on the light and did a quick inventory. Before him lay a reasonably broad array of weapons and ammo, a fast car, an off-road-ready SUV, a large cache of MREs, and some rather sophisticated communications equipment. That is what he'd come here after.

He'd been considering this course of action for the last week or so, ever since they ran out of specialists to consult. They only kept getting the same answers no matter who they saw, and Karl's list of options was growing alarmingly narrow. Wendy had to get some relief, one way or another. She just _had_ to! Even if what she was going through didn't kill her, he couldn't bear to see her suffer so much. But knowing how she would feel about what he had in mind, he opted for getting forgiveness rather than permission. Nor was it without a sense of trepidation that he chose this path, considering the chance he was taking. There just wasn't much choice left. He set up his secure line, the satellite feed, and the encryption device, and punched in a number.

##

Dedrick Timmun was a solid fellow, in a number of respects. A family guy with two kids in college and one out on her own, he was approaching his twenty-fifth year with the ISB. His position was in no way glamorous, but the rotund coati considered his duties in the records department to be at the very least useful, and occasionally vital. His post tended to be solitary as opposed to lonely. It wasn't as if no one ever dropped by: he had a few visitors most days … they just never stayed long. And that suited him fine. It left him plenty of time to make sure that each of the databases he controlled was tuned, up to date, and free of corruption or faulty information.

His desk phone had an outside line, technically speaking, but his wife was the only one who knew it and she made a point of never using it. She'd been married to him long enough to understand his quirks, and being interrupted in the middle of work by a phone call irritated him more than most other things. So when the outside line lit up, he felt certain that it must be a dire emergency. He practically pounced on the phone.

"Felicia?"

"… Is this Dedrick Timmun?"

It _wasn't_ his wife. He took the phone away from his ear and frowned at it, then answered the query. "Yes. Who is this?"

"Someone you may not remember. We used to work together when you were on Colonel Prosyonni's staff."

Dedrick got an unpleasant chill. The voice struck a resonance in his memory that brought him no comfort. Sinking slowly back into his chair, he responded carefully, "That was a long time ago."

"Yes, it was. But I remember how good you were at data recovery, and I think you might be the only one there who can help me."

"How did you get this number?"

"From Hemanth Rajid."

That gave him seriously to pause. Thinking furiously for a few seconds, he said, "Why didn't Rajid just call me himself?"

"You might say we had something of a falling out."

"You … still haven't told me your name."

"That catch in your voice leads me to believe you already know it."

Dedrick looked at the phone again, then grabbed a pawful of tissues from the box on his desk and wiped the sweat off his muzzle. His voice whispery, he said, "Until … recently … I thought you were dead."

"A false impression that I fostered as much as possible and which was shared by the bulk of your coworkers. It gave me a few years of relative peace that let me get my head on straight."

"… What?"

"Okay, Dedrick, look. I'm leveling with you here. You know as well as I do how much the Bureau would like to get their paws on me. Nor can I blame them. As far as they know I'm the worst loose cannon anyone ever heard of. But they're wrong on that count. If you'll think about it for a moment you'll realize that I have nothing to gain personally by contacting anyone there."

"Um. Yeah. That had crossed my mind." _Among a few hundred other things._

"And I wouldn't have done so if I'd had any choice."

"So … why are you?"

"As a favor for a friend of mine."

"… You have _friends?_"

"See, now that's the sort of misconception I'm talking about. You may find this difficult to believe, but I've been nothing more than a plain old, average model citizen, plugging along as a small business owner for the last few years. That, and my friends and my faith, are all I want any more."

"… I'd heard that."

"I'm not surprised. There has been rather a lot of buzz about me in recent months."

"Yeah." The coati leaned back in his chair. "Capra was down here several weeks back."

"… And? That's significant?"

"We had some time to, uh, shoot the breeze while he waited for his hardcopies. He, uh, said he thought you'd, um … gone straight. As it were."

"He's right."

Considering his next words carefully, Dedrick said, "I feel fairly sure you didn't just _ask_ Rajid for my number."

"No. Out of self-preservation I installed some monitoring programs in some of the ISB systems. They figured that out at least six months ago, and didn't let on they knew. Pretty cagey. They had me fooled for a while, which is saying something."

_Okay, he's played it dead on the beam so far. Another point in his favor._ "Look, um, Gulo, I don't really think I ought to be … you know, talking to you. If they find out …"

"Oh, I know you'll tell somebody. You're too straight a shooter not to. That's another of the reasons I chose you."

Now Dedrick was confused. "If you _know_ that, what's the point in calling me at all?"

"Because I think you'll help me anyway."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because it's the right thing to do."

"Umm …" That wasn't what he was expecting to hear. "Okay. Just out of curiosity, what is it that you think I have that I would be willing to part with?"

"Information about the process that made me what I am."

"Huh. You know I don't have that. Nobody does."

"I know that all of Dr. Maginot's direct research was destroyed. But I also know that the Bureau did a heck of a lot of 'product assessment' on Omicron. There must be some records somewhere of the tests they put us through: blood chemistry, EEG readings, something. They were at us for months."

"Oh. Yeah, there's probably something on that."

"So can you get it for me?"

"Why do you want it?"

"To help my friend, who is in a similar situation."

That statement nonplussed the coati. "Huh? I thought you were the only survivor from Omicron."

"I was."

"Are you saying your friend is … what, a Stage-2 Augment?"

"It's not quite that simple. And I can't really go into any details. I promised."

"And how would I get this information into your paws? You planning to just waltz into the complex and have me paged?"

"Heh! The idea has merit. But no. While I'm sure that would be all kinds of fun, I think a simple exchange in a fairly public place will do."

"Public it may be, but I don't think any aspect of this is going to be 'simple'."

Karl conceded, "You may be right."

"And yet you seem to have no problem with the thought that I'll go to the powers that be and rat you out."

"It was bound to happen anyway."

"But you won't get your material that way."

"Sure I will."

Before Dedrick could formulate a suitable response, Karl continued, "Here's how I see this panning out: either Rajid will let it slide, I'll meet you, pick up the package, and leave; or he'll try to talk me in, which will have the same outcome; or he'll try to catch me, and given that scenario I'll have to weasel my way out. I'm betting on Door Number Three."

"So you expect a fight?"

"I expect them to try to stop me. I don't expect it'll be much of a fight."

"You sound … awfully sure of yourself."

"I know what _they've_ got. I know what _I've_ got. All I want is some information that won't compromise any of their projects one iota. I'm not a danger to them, and the ones who have bothered to engage a few brain cells on the subject know it. Rajid is one of the thinkers. He'll figure out pretty quick that capturing me won't be a cakewalk, and he won't actually risk any of his agents in some foolhardy venture."

This was making Dedrick's head hurt. "So what do you expect _me_ to do?"

"I expect you to talk to your boss, who will run straight to Rajid, who will tell you to go ahead and gather what data you can find. I don't expect he'll be too keen on including any military types in our little meeting, so he'll want to keep it low-key. He'll choose a venue that's public enough to suit me and safe enough to suit him. I also expect that he'll want some sort of information from me in return."

"Sounds like you thought this out pretty well."

"I've had a deal of time on my paws."

"Heh. If you're interested in my opinion, he'll probably want the plans for that fancy sled you built."

"You like that? It's a sweet ride."

"Bombs and all?"

"You know me. Attention to detail is what keeps one on the correct side of one's pelt."

"Uh-huh." He stopped to think for a moment and then shrugged. "Okay. Suppose I do this for you. How are you going to find out where the meeting is?"

"Well, obviously I'll call you back."

"Why me?"

"I have my reasons."

Drumming his fingers on the desk, Dedrick mulled that over. "Fine. So as soon as we hang up, I'll call my boss."

"Right."

"And you'll call back … when?"

"Day after tomorrow. That will give Rajid time to set up his tracing equipment on your phone."

For the third time during the conversation, the coati took the phone away from his ear and stared at it. "You mean you _expect_ the call to be traced, and you're calling back _anyway_?"

"It's a chance I have to take."

"This friend of yours must be awfully important to you."

"You may find, old friend, that a lot of things about me have changed."

After a few seconds of silence, Dedrick asked, "Gulo, would it be … can I … ask you something?"

"Sure."

"What made you quit?"

"Quit?"

"Yeah. Ever since you turned up again, that's been one of the big questions floating around the office. For a few years there you were a one-fur commando force, and then you just vanished. There's a lot of speculation as to why."

"Oh. Well, that's simple. I quit because I ran out of terrorists to kill."

Dedrick didn't have much to say to that. "Oh."

"So I'll talk to you Sunday."

"I guess … Whoa. Day after tomorrow is Sunday."

"That can typically be said of a Friday."

"The office is closed on Sunday."

"You know, I bet Rajid won't mind authorizing you some overtime."

"Can't you make it Monday instead?"

"Sorry. Previous engagement." And the line went dead.

Slowly, Dedrick laid the pawset back on its cradle and then rested his head in both paws. When his breathing was back under control, he picked it up and punched his boss' number.

##

_** Sunday 30 July 2017 – 9:00am **_

Already halfway to his destination, Karl repeatedly had to slow himself back down to the speed limit. Yesterday had been Wendy's worst day in a while, which was quite a statement. Nothing they had available had been able to bank the roaring fire trying to beat its way out of her head, and later she had vomited until blood came up. The wolverine was frantic to get her some help. But he knew that getting pulled over wouldn't help, and with it being Sunday morning, traffic was so light that anything unusual would stand out. He concentrated on keeping his foot from getting heavy.

##

"Honestly," queried Wayne, "would it have hurt anything to get him to name the time?"

Dedrick was indignant. "_You_ try talking to the psycho ex-ghost next time and see how well _your_ brain works!"

"He ain't psycho. An' bot' o' yez plug it." Capra had finished tuning his equipment three hours ago, but he couldn't help checking and tweaking it every few minutes anyway. "I cain't heah da signal oveh ya yappin'." He glanced up at Rajid, who was standing in the corner near the door, a little away from the rest of them. The mongoose had been in a frenzy most of the previous day. He'd called every tracing expert he could find to come in and help Capra get set up. As Karl had predicted, he kept the proceedings entirely within his department, avoiding any hint of military involvement. But he'd also kept his own plans very close to his chest. Capra still didn't have a clear idea of what his boss intended to do when Gulo called.

All three of the agents grouped around the desk jerked badly when the phone rang. Dedrick wiped his paws on his pants and reached for the pawset. "Hello?"

"I'm glad to see that you were able to schedule some overtime."

"Ah. Well, as to that, you didn't leave us much choice."

"You sound a lot less rattled than you did the last time we spoke."

"Umm …" The coati leaned one elbow on the arm of his chair as he watched Capra. That worthy's paws flew over his controls as he patched into the signal and set his program to work following it. "I don't know how well that reflects reality."

Karl chuckled. "I don't **_try_** to be scary. It's just my natural state."

"Caught that."

"Now. Pleasantries aside, how about putting your phone on speaker mode."

Dedrick looked over at Rajid, who gave him a curt nod. He punched the button and hung the pawset back in its cradle. "Can you hear me okay?"

"Just fine. I did want to get Capra and Rajid in on the conversation, though."

Dedrick broke a sweat as he glanced between the two furs mentioned. "How'd you know they were here?"

"Oh, please. You wouldn't be able to keep either of them away. Is anyone else from the old gang there?"

Wayne looked at Capra for direction. The canine cleared his throat and said, "We got Wayne here, too."

"Oh! Very good. That explains the other heartbeat."

The four furs glanced at each other in apprehension.

"I just wanted to know who I was dealing with. Now, let's get down to it. Where do you want to meet?"

Rajid stepped forward and asked, "What makes you think we want to meet at all?"

That brought a laugh from the wolverine. "You wouldn't be there if you didn't. Besides, I'm giving you too good a chance to pass up. There's always an outside possibility that I missed something and you'll be able to pin me down."

"If you truly thought that you would not be talking with us."

"No. Sadly that isn't so. My circumstances have changed recently, and I need as much information as you can spare about how my body works."

"Yes, well, Agent Timmun explained your request. It strikes me as odd."

"I thought it might."

"How is it that you need this information now when you didn't for the last six years?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

"You are not being very cooperative."

"I will cooperate to the extent that it doesn't place me in any danger. Giving you that information would compromise my safety. Now, where do you want to meet?"

Rajid sighed and said, "Which part of the country do you want to use?"

"My choice?"

"As far as I can allow."

"Very well. How about the Research Triangle?"

"North Carolina? Um …" He thought that over for a few seconds as he gave Capra a questioning look. The shaggy canine had a smile growing on his homely face, and he gave Rajid the 'thumbs up' sign. "Okay. Let me work on that. I do not know of a place off the top of my head that we could use, but I will find one in the next couple of days if that is all right with you."

"Suits me. I'll call back on Tuesday." And he hung up.

Rajid stepped over to Capra's console. "You got it?"

"Betcher ass, Raj." He waited while the unit hummed and a number came up on his screen. "Huh. 876 area code. Where da hell's dat?" He tapped a few more keys and quickly got a listing. "Sumbitch is in Jamaica!"

"Jamaica!" Wayne said. "No wonder he didn't care what part of the country we used for the meeting."

Capra went through several more screens of information, finally sitting back in his chair and blowing a disgusted sigh. "Dat guy beats all."

"What?"

"Dat numbeh's a massage parlor."

"… Excuse me?"

"He managed somehow ta Trojan his phone t'roo a massage parlor in Jamaica. He ain't dere. I'd bet da farm on it."

"So the trace didn't work?"

"Oh, it worked. Jist da way Gulo wanted it to."

"Are you sure? Absolutely sure?"

The shaggy agent held a phone out to Rajid. "Call da numbeh."

After the briefest of hesitations, he did. He held a short conversation with the fur on the other end, and then passed the phone back to Capra, his expression crestfallen. "You were right. They never heard of him."

"So whaddawe do now?"

"We talk to him on Tuesday. In the meantime I have a lot of work to do."

##


	7. Chapter 4 Just An Ordinary Day Part A

_**Chapter Four – Just an Ordinary Day – Part A**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**The best thing about the future  
****is that it comes only one day at a time.**

_**-Abraham Lincoln **_

##

_** Monday 31 July 2017 – 4:33am – Middlebury, Vermont **_

Brightlimb Stephens came to consciousness suddenly. The low cry that had awakened him sounded again, and he sat up and turned to look at his mate. Faye lay on her back, mouth open, facial fur matted, her shallow panting interspersed with moans and frightened whimpers. One arm was twisted into the sheets, damp with her sweat, and the other flailed about weakly.

He caught both her paws in his and dipped a tendril of thought into her mind stream.

**_. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Pain . . ._**

**_FIRE . . . . . . . . . . . ._**

**_. . . . . . .Loss_**

**_. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . FEAR . . . . . . ._**

**_. . . . . . .Despair . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ._**

The vision had her in its grip. "Faye, wake up."

Her head thrashed side to side.

"Faye, it's a dream. Wake up, Dear One." He willed her away from the nightmare.

The last moan segued into a shuddering sob as her eyes came open. She jerked upright, staring around wildly and panting.

"It's all right, Faye. I'm here. It's over. You're safe."

She clung to him then, and he held her while she got herself under control, the sobs and gulping breaths soon subsiding. She looked up at him and said, "It was her again."

"Her?"

"The vixen."

"Miss Wylde?"

"Yes."

"I thought your father said he took care of that problem!"

"This is a different … problem? Circumstance? Event? What I … the situation I saw … the thing that is causing her pain … isn't … it won't _happen_ to her, but … it will … _affect_ her."

"So, a warning?"

Faye nodded. "I need a … some paper." She reached over and flipped on her bedside lamp. "And a pen. And would you get me a glass of water?"

"Sure." Brightlimb rummaged around and got her a notebook, and then retrieved the water while she spent the next couple of minutes scribbling.

"What are you writing?"

"Shh!"

He waited patiently until she was done. She tossed him the notebook, emptied the glass in three long swallows, and flopped back down onto her pillow. "She needs that."

Catching the notebook, he looked at what she'd written:

_↑44-10-12 ..._→_73-08-53_

_41-52-53 ... 87-37-37_

_37-48-26 ... 122-25-13_

_47-36-48 ... 122-20-17_

_53-32-26 ... 113-29-26_

_59-16-10 ... 114-53-04_

_48-27-19 ... 71-24-26_

_44-10-12 ... 73-08-53_

_39-35-59 ... 81-00-30_

He raised an eyebrow and one corner of his muzzle. "Okay, I'll bite. What is it?"

"I don't know."

"But she needs it?"

"Yes. Soon."

"So this was a Seeing."

"It was. A powerful one. This will happen. I know it."

"Very well." He was used to his mate's visions, although they didn't usually take so much out of her. "Should we plan to drive up to her place today?"

"No. She isn't there."

"… Um. All right. Do you know where she is?"

Faye thought that over for a minute and then pointed generally west. "That way."

"Okay." His grin grew a bit. "How far?"

"A goodly distance."

"Is that 'goodly' as in klicks, or hundreds of klicks?"

"Hundreds. At least. She is in a city."

"But you don't know which one?"

"No. But I don't need to. She will come to us."

Brightlimb looked at the paper again. It didn't make any more sense after a second examination. "This must be some kind of code. And two of these rows are the same."

"If you say so. It will mean something to her." She raised herself up on an elbow. "Bri, I've got to have a shower. And then we ought to change the sheets."

"Sounds good. I don't think either of us will be going back to sleep this morning."

"I know I won't."

"Would you like for me to steep you a cup of tea while you get cleaned up?"

"That would be wonderful! Chamomile and mint?"

"Coming right up."

##

**We never deceive for a good purpose;  
****knavery adds malice to falsehood.**

_**- Jean de la Bruyere**_

##

_** 11:10am – Needham, Massachusetts **_

Hemanth Rajid liked to think that he ran a tight ship. Some few of his staff felt the same way, but most just considered him picky. 'Anal', as some of them put it. Nevertheless the department usually operated like a precision-grade lab instrument: very calm, almost sterile on the surface, but with a hellish amount of work going on out of sight. This morning, it more closely resembled a kicked anthill.

The first obstacle had been the location of their meeting place with Gulo. Either he'd gotten lucky or the wolverine had done some research, because no one on Rajid's staff hailed from North Carolina. No one was the least bit familiar with the Research Triangle area. Five team members were assigned the task of locating possible sites, compiling a list of pros and cons for each. Three had to come up with a plan for monitoring the meeting, preferably from concealment. Several others got the job of figuring out some way to capture their former agent, and doing so in a way that wouldn't permanently piss him off. That group shortly became moody enough that nobody else wanted to talk to them.

But these were good people, talented and dedicated, and they weren't used to failure. So by the time of Rajid's second 'war council' meeting they were ready with three good sites and half a dozen contingency plans for setting everything up.

Foxworth flipped through the various holographic images and stopped on one showing a small business park. "I like this place outside of Bethesda. It's only got one entrance, the land is nice and flat, and there aren't any buildings taller than two stories. The meeting could be held outside and would limit the places he could hide."

"Dat one entrance t'ing might be a killah f' da deal. Gulo ain't gonna want a place wit'out a back door."

"I think this new mall just south of Durham would be better," Trina said. "It isn't open yet so there won't be any customers around, and the crews are only working on one end, besides the electricians finishing up the parking lot lights."

Wayne snickered, "Trust you to want to go to a mall."

She shot him the finger.

Rajid studied the aerial views. "This location has merit. There is an existing security monitor system that we could patch into as a supplement to our own. We can deploy those new stasis nets over every entrance, and he probably won't be able to leave the mall any other way."

"_Prob'ly_," put in Capra, "bein' da op'rative woid dere, Raj."

"Correct. Gulo is resourceful."

That pulled a chuckle from the other agents.

One of the staff members, Terry Fox, asked, "So you don't want to consider this old warehouse in Cary?"

"I did not say that Mr. Fox. The warehouse has much to recommend it as well. Being an industrial area, and immediately adjacent to a train yard, collateral damage would be held to a minimum if the meeting gets out of paw. From another viewpoint, though, Gulo may decide it is too remote, that it would give us too much of an advantage in our attempt to … contain him."

"But it does have more open space than the mall, and fewer entrances to manage. Gulo has shown himself to be overconfident on more than one occasion, sir, and I don't think he'd balk at holding the meeting there."

"Possibly." Rajid's fingers drummed on the table for a bit. "Well, one of these two will have to serve. Angela, please make the travel arrangements for the team."

"Will do, sir."

"Now, David, tell us more about how these stasis nets may be deployed."

Angela got up and scooted out of the meeting room. A few minutes later she was on the phone with her assistant. After a brief conversation she was assured that the necessary helicopters would be prepared and available in three hours.

The assistant, one Darrel Mesomel, went to work immediately, contacting the various ISB departments to set the processes in motion. He was finished with the initial stages of his assignment in fifteen minutes. The salient features of the upcoming excursion to North Carolina he jotted down on a small sticky-note and stuffed it into a back pocket.

Knowing that his input wouldn't be needed for at least an hour, he quickly ducked out of his office and left the complex. He drove for only about four klicks before coming to a small, well-established apartment complex. He entered and drove around to the back, to Unit H, where he parked and took the stairs up to Number 6.

This was his personal apartment. He'd lived here for the entire seventeen months that he'd been a part of Rajid's team, after successfully completing a year-long probation and passing all the necessary background checks. This apartment had, of course, been checked out thoroughly during his trial period, and was swept for electronic listening devices every other month, just as the living quarters of all other agents were. It always came up clean. Darrel Mesomel made sure of it. He didn't need such things to do his job. His _real_ job, that is.

Going to his bathroom and opening the medicine cabinet, he removed all the contents, then the two glass shelves. Then he used a small screwdriver to take the sheet metal back out of it. This revealed the wallspace between his apartment and the one next door, including a small nook containing a metal case and a butterfly switch. He took the sticky-note from his pocket and dropped it into the case, replaced it in its nook, and flipped the toggle switch. That activated a homing beacon that sent out a chirp signal once every fifteen minutes. He knew someone was listening for it. The information would be in the paws of his superiors inside the hour.

This assignment, this double-agent thing he was doing, was the fulfillment of a longtime dream of his. His family had suffered so much from this country's government. He'd been born here, but his mother was from Libya, and his father and two uncles had died during the bombardment of 1986. He considered himself blessed to have been in such a position and able to take advantage of it. The deal he'd cut with the Trenchant Fur representative gave him a completely new, air-tight background, and the promise of a place of honor in their ranks when he was done. That, along with his Baltimore-native accent, had served him well. His stream of information had allowed the TFN considerable leeway in some of their activities, at least as they related to Rajid's department.

Most recently this flap with Gulo made his bosses feel that their faith in him was well-placed. Knowing that the wolverine was (or recently had been) in the Chicago area allowed them to narrow their search sufficiently that they thought they'd find him if he spent much time in public at all. He was a very recognizable figure, and tended to leave an impression on those furs he interacted with. For example, one couple they'd happened across had seen him outside a downtown skyscraper not two weeks ago, arguing with his wife.

His wife. Ah, now there was a true bit of gold. Gulo had really screwed the pooch this time. There was _nothing_ like a loved one to cloud an agent's judgment. And if the reports were to be believed, she had some kind of fairly serious medical condition. Even better. Why Gulo had saddled himself with a crip, Darrel didn't know. Nor did he care. It was all to their advantage.

While trotting back downstairs he wolfed a sandwich and a soft drink, then made haste to get back to his office. It wouldn't do to compromise his position with sloppy follow-up. Angela depended on him to manage the details, and he hadn't let her down yet. He had a cover to maintain, after all.

##


	8. Chapter 4 Just An Ordinary Day Part B

_**Chapter Four – Just an Ordinary Day – Part B**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Noon – Chicago, Illinois **_

"Have you _lost_ your fucking _mind?_"

"Now, you see? I knew you'd say that."

Wendy got right up in his face. "Damn _right_ I'll say that! Hell, _**NO**_, you can't walk straight into a _fucking_ _**trap!**_"

"You sure seem fond of that word today; more so than usual."

She jabbed a finger at him. "I didn't wait forty-three years for the perfect husband to come along just so he can toss his life down the crapper."

"I'm hardly perfect. And I'll make sure it doesn't happen that way."

"You _can't_ be sure! Karl! Please! Use that ordinarily excellent brain of yours! They wouldn't meet with you if they didn't think they had some chance of getting their hooks on you."

"And I plan to show them the error of their ways. Remember, I've got a new worm in place on the Midwest Regional Director's secretary's computer. I'm flying out this afternoon to Boston so I can do the same thing to Rajid. I know what they have planned to this point, and I'll know their plans better than they do before the festivities start. I worked in the Triangle area for years, and I'm quite familiar with it. If it looks like there's a better than average chance that they might really pull it off … well, then I won't show. How's that?"

She thought it over briefly before saying, "It still sucks. It might not suck as badly as it could, but it sucks. There are too many variables. _Waaay_ too many."

"Maybe not as many as you might think. I know what's going on in Rajid's mind about now, and it's driving him nuts. He's playing both ends against the middle, trying to get his paws on me while keeping the military at a distance, and it's limiting his moves. I'll give you even money that he hasn't even told his boss what's up. So he's going down to North Carolina with probably twenty or thirty percent of the personnel he'd _like_ to have, and a drastically compressed timetable. He won't be able to set up anything really complicated in the time I plan to give him. It may not be a cakewalk, but it won't be anything I can't handle."

"… Hmph. I don't know if that's an intimate knowledge of the true situation or just a hyperbolic mess of hubris."

"I prefer to think it's the former."

"You would. But I … oh …" She sagged a little and fell into one of the stuffed chairs in the living area.

Karl came over and knelt beside her. "Your legs?"

"… Yeah. Ouch. And feet. Major ouch. The pain never really went away, just sort of dulled down."

"And it's coming back?"

She nodded, wincing. "Like a few hundred hot needles jamming into my shins."

"I'll get the meds."

##

**Absence makes the heart grow fonder.**

##

_** 12:30pm – Pittsburg, Pennsylvania **_

Up in her room, Samantha Foxx had a good view of the mailbox through her front window; she kept a weather eye peeled in its direction most days. So she spotted the mail carrier in time to scoot downstairs and be waiting by the fence when he got to their house. The old cat smiled when he caught sight of her, and waved a letter. She bounced up and down and clapped as he passed it to her, racing then into the house and leaving the front door slightly ajar.

_Whoever that young 'O'Musca' fellow is who keeps writing her, I sure hope he treats her right. Never saw a girl so crazy in love in my life._ He chuckled as he dropped a magazine and three fliers into the mailbox.

She was tearing the letter open as she got to her room, and knocked the door closed with a foot as she bounded in. Landing on the bed on her back, she angled the paper toward the light and read:

_Leannán –_

_I was so glad to get your email with the pictures of  
your trip to the lake. How I envy those boys! You  
look wonderful._

_I need to catch you up on what's going on with  
Carnegie Mellon. It looks like the Popular Mechanics  
scholarship is going to pick up about 65% of what  
I'll need. Mr. Evans' tactical group kicked in another  
25%, and the university financial aid department  
arranged for a combination of Pell Grants and  
discounts that will make up for the rest. So my  
Mum won't have to fork over anything. I'll be  
getting a job once I get settled in there, so I'll be  
having some spending money._

_We got an odd bit of post yesterday. It was a mess  
of legal forms informing us that ownership of the  
Fixit Shop was being formally transferred to me,  
for consideration of services rendered. You know  
we got confirmation that Mr. Luscus was alive,  
which was a big relief all around, but this was  
unexpected to say the least. There was a manifest  
of what the place contained, down to the last nut  
and washer, that ran to 58 pages of fine print. The  
bottom line, though, is that the stuff in that little  
shop is worth more than three million dollars, if I  
wanted to liquidate it. I don't really, though, surely  
not all of it. Maybe just enough to fix it so that Mum  
won't have to worry about money any more. It  
might be a good place to set Ian and Sean up so  
they could learn a bit about the trade._

His letter went on for six pages. She soaked up every word, tasting his presence in each phrase. She liked getting emails from him, and he obliged her with at least one newsy bit of electronic correspondence each day. But it was his letters, his paw-written notes, that thrilled her, that brought his reality home. This is what she waited for. This is what she loved, when she couldn't love him in person.

She read it through three times, finally absorbing the fact that her fiancé was, technically, now a relatively rich fellow. And what did that mean?

_If he can have his pick of girls, why would he want to stay with me? When he goes off to that big ol' college, there will be hundreds of girls there, maybe thousands, a lot of them probably prettier than I am … and way smarter, or they wouldn't be there. I just know some of them will take a fancy to him, and go after him, the way Drew wanted to. How can I possibly fight that, especially if I'm not there? And now that he's rich he'll be an even bigger catch! Help!_

These nagging doubts had bothered her off and on for a few weeks. She had nothing _like_ a reason to feel this way. He'd never shown her even a smidgen of evidence that he wasn't thoroughly in love with her. There was nothing but love in his letters; no hesitation, no lack of zeal, only tenderness and concern for her, and occasional talk of their eventual life together. So why did she worry?

She chastised herself for being foolish and immature, and then read his letter again. He was planning to come for a visit on the 19th. He had some sort of surprise that he was bringing her. He said he loved her in four different places in the letter. He made an oblique reference to 'a serious talk with Mr. Foxx' in the same paragraph where he used the word 'honeymoon'.

_Don't be stupid, Samantha. He's the real deal. You know that. Just trust him._

"Sam?" Her mother's voice drifted up the stairs.

"Yeah, Mom?"

"Isn't it time to be getting ready for practice?"

She looked at the time: two o'clock. _Eep! Where did the last hour go?_ "Okay, Mom, I'll be right down." And she bounced off the bed and over to her dresser where she stowed his latest letter with all the others.

##

**Those that we love have most power to hurt us.**

_**- Francis Beaumont**_

##

_** 2:30pm – Vergennes, Vermont **_

Mrs. Vison walked into the kitchen and set a couple of small bags on the counter. "Ellen? You here, Dear?" She received no answer so she stowed the few items she'd purchased in the refrigerator, washed her paws, and headed back toward her daughter's bedroom. The Vison home was a rambling ranch-style place, fairly unusual in this area of traditional salt-box housing. Each of the four bedrooms had a door to the outside, and a small patio of its own. Mrs. Vison found Ellen on hers, curled up in a papa-san chair. The day being quite warm, Ellen hadn't felt the need for much in the way of clothing. A pair of running shorts and a sports bra detailed the extent of her dress. Her mother sat down in the Adirondack chair beside her and said, "I got you that ice cream you asked for."

A doleful face, cheeks matted with tear tracks, looked up at the older femme. "Ice cream?"

"Yes, Dear."

She seemed puzzled. "What kind?"

"New York Ripple."

"… Did I ask for that?"

"Yes, Sweetie, you did."

"Oh." Her head dropped back to the chair.

"I, um, ran into Bert in town."

"… So?"

"He said they've got a state-wide APB out on him."

"Well, fan-damn-tastic."

Her mother fidgeted a bit and then asked, "Is there … anything you've got your heart set on for supper?"

Ellen thought it over for several seconds, scratched briefly at the bandages covering her upper left arm and shoulder, and said, "Wolf's bane casserole with strychnine sauce."

"Oh, Ellen, please don't be that way. I know it hurts, but in time …"

"In time I'll have a full appreciation for just how big an idiot I've been."

"You aren't the only one he conned, you know. I feel like a colossal fool for taking what he said at face value." She sighed and added, "I'm just glad _you_ didn't have a line of credit he could clean out."

"And _you_ didn't sleep with him."

"… No. I didn't. That's true." After a small hesitation, she continued, "Not that he wouldn't have given it a shot if he thought he could profit from it."

Quietly Ellen responded, "He didn't try to kill you, either."

There wasn't much to say to that. "Well … I'll, um, just get the, uh, meat out to thaw. I got some yams. I can fix you that soufflé you like. You know, with pecans on top?"

"Mom, you _are_ aware that there are problems that can't be fixed with food, right? You know that, don't you?"

"… I know." She put a paw on her daughter's knee and gave her a gentle squeeze. "If there's anything … anything else you'd like? Just say the word." And she went back inside.

Ellen stared off across the length of their back yard, rubbed her eyes, and got a fresh tissue from the box that shared her chair.

##

**An honest man can feel no pleasure  
****in the exercise of power over his fellow citizens.**

**-_Thomas Jefferson_**

##

_** 3:00pm **_

West of Falling Spring, Virginia, lies a maze of small, beautiful valleys. Few roads exist to lead the enterprising traveler into the area, and those that may be found are narrow, twisting, and dappled. One of them, a packed-dirt path branching off from a not-quite-two-lane road of tar and gravel, meandered up out of sight between two hills' thickly forested shoulders. A lopsided and rusted gate hung across the entrance, festooned with paw-drawn signs proclaiming PRIVITE and POSTID and NO TRESPASING. Weeds and Johnson grass obscured the lower portion of one of the signs.

It was obvious to anyone who happened by that the old mountaineer who must live up that valley didn't take kindly to visitors. Also the lack of tire tracks gave evidence to the fact that he didn't get out much. In this part of the country, any fur who made it plain that he valued his privacy was left alone. Madame Schmedtte understood that rough courtesy, and took advantage of it.

Her manse stood half a klick back from the entrance, and was only partially visible even from the air. That was no inconvenience since she only traveled to and from her home by helicopter. Some months had passed since last she'd ventured out, though. There were too many avenues of information that led at last to the NSA or the ISB or Homeland Security, and she couldn't chance someone recognizing her. No matter. She managed the strands of her web quite well from this secluded sanctum.

Just now, though, her entire attention was focused on the sheet of paper that her fax machine had spit out less than a minute ago. It was a photocopy of the sticky-note that Darrel Mesomel had tucked into the back of his medicine cabinet some three hours earlier. Her eyes burning in triumph, she looked up at her lieutenant as he stood there expectantly and said, "Get Luc and Jan in here as soon as you can. We have much work to do."

The fur bowed and strode out rapidly. Madame Schmedtte read the paper again, the corners of her muzzle turning up very slightly in incredulous glee. She ambled over to the enormous mantle of paw-carved pink marble and stared at the portrait that hung over it. The painting, a nearly photorealistic depiction of her son, Rijker, had a long drape of heavy, black velvet. A lit candle stood to its either side. She made very sure that the candles never went out. The tapers were changed three times every day, without fail. She laid the paper on the mantle, reached a paw up to the portrait, and whispered, "Revenge. We will have our revenge, my son." No tears leaked from her eyes. There was no sadness, no remorse. Her family had been attacked, her son killed, her honor besmirched. That cried out for redress.

Yes, there was most definitely a personal vendetta involved; mainly, though, this was business. She couldn't afford to have any other factions in the Cartel think that one of her own could be murdered without consequence. That would lead to internecine war, the way it had been in the old days before the wolves stopped killing each other and banded together to work on the sheep. She wouldn't – she _couldn't_ – allow that to happen.

##

_** 5:23pm **_

It was quiet in the hospital; at least it was in the maternity ward. That was just fine by the duty nurse, a trim marten of middle years. Working in this wing, she got more than her fair share of 'hectic'. Births, she had often observed, tended to come in waves. Some days it would be total mayhem, with a dozen or fifteen laboring mothers panting and sweating and crying up and down the ward. Others, such as today, were much more pleasant. The attractive squirrel in Room 2 was her only patient, and she was being no trouble at all. She already had a couple of kids at home, and knew the drill, but even so she seemed uncommonly relaxed. Her husband was great, too. He didn't act the least bit nervous, though he was very excited about the impending birth. _As he should be. I wish more fathers were like that. Make my job easier._ She padded down to their room and peeked in.

The cat looked up when the door opened.

"You need anything Mr. Evans?"

"No, thank you, Nikki. We're fine. The labor is progressing nicely."

She looked over at the mother-to-be. "How 'bout you, honey?"

Debbye gave her a serene smile and shook her head. "We'll let you know when we need Doctor Clark to play catch."

"Okay. You've got the button." And she left them alone.

Debbye glanced at Lee. "Are you upset that she told us we were having a girl?"

"Nah. Not really. We hadn't let her know how we felt, so she can hardly be blamed." He ran his free paw lightly over her abdomen. "It's a pretty unusual position these days."

"Yeah. You're right." She sighed and closed her eyes. "Michelle Rachel Evans."

"It's a beautiful name, for the beautiful daughter of my beautiful wife."

"Pbbthh. Beautiful? I look a wreck and you know it."

"To me you outshine the brightest nebula in the heavens, and it doesn't matter what you have on or whether your face is brushed." He leaned over and kissed her on both eyes. "I love you. You're stuck with me."

She smiled happily. "I'll take it."

She'd been holding his paw the whole time and he felt her grip increase. He asked, "Is that another peak starting already?"

"Uh-huh." She re-centered and concentrated on her breathing. After about a minute the contraction passed.

Lee was watching the clock on the wall. "That one was only four minutes after the last one. Don't you think we'd better …"

"I do. You might as well go get him."

He pressed the call button and kissed her again. "You ready to be a mommy?"

"I'm already a mommy, silly cat. Just ask anyone who knows George and Linda."

"Heh. Yeah, I'm 'George's dad' to most of the people we know."

Nurse Nikki looked in the door. "Can I get you something?"

"Doctor Clark."

"Oh! Right away." The door whispered shut in her wake.

##


	9. Chapter 5 Best Laid Plans Part A

_**Chapter Five – Best-Laid Plans – Part A**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**The price one pays for pursuing any profession or calling  
****is an intimate knowledge of its ugly side.**

_**-James Baldwin**_

##

_** Tuesday 1 August 2017 – 11:00am – Chicago, Illinois **_

The image in the full-length mirror in the suite's dressing area did not please Wendy as she stood there, studying her reflection. Turning her head side to side for perhaps the fortieth time in the last ten minutes, she let slip a frustrated sigh and limped back over to the bed, staring at the loose pile of auburn headfur that lay on and around her pillow. The new crop was amazingly fine and soft and thick … and about a centimeter long. Granted, that was a lot longer than it might have been, but still. _I look like I just joined the Marines._ She reached back then and pulled her tail up in front of her, wincing a little at its appearance. Her headfur was a sartorial triumph compared with the ragged mess that had followed her around these last couple of days. The old fur was coming out in clumps along its length, leaving patches that were a slightly darker shade and very short. The white tip had already been completely replaced but was yet little more than down; it was a tattered match head of an excuse for a tail.

She knelt on the edge of the bed – carefully, so as not to aggravate the headache that lurked just out of touch behind her eyes – and scooped the mass into a wad. It went into the small wicker trash can beside the bureau. Then she lay back down, pulled the covers up, and brooded. _He'll say it looks cute. I can hear it now. He'll make much over how the new headfur is redder than the old, and he'll run his paws through it every time he walks past me, and he'll compare it favorably with something ridiculously soft._ A tiny smile graced her features at that thought. _He loves me so much._

Only that morning her empathic talent had begun to stir again, depositing her briefly into the dreamscape of the fur in the next apartment, a junior executive on staff with a large but deeply troubled company. The fellow was a seething mass of repressed resentment, his subconscious a blighted testament to betrayal. It was a wild ride, if mercifully short, before she was able to damp the feed and shield herself. _I need to figure out some way to modulate this empathic thing. What I __don't__ need is to suddenly find myself inside the mind of some … __pervert__ or something. That would be just too weird._

Around dawn Karl called her from Boston to check up on her symptoms. She was already awake by that time, having endured half an hour of pain severe enough that when she stumbled face-first into the bathroom doorframe, she didn't even notice the splotch of bright red she left on it. Their conversation was short and strained. The fact that he was doing everything in his power to help her didn't make him feel any better about her situation, especially when he was fifteen hundred klicks away and couldn't be there to offer her his aid in person. For her part, it hurt so much to talk that she begged off the phone after a couple of minutes.

Now, though, she was in the middle of her daily respite, such as it was. Her legs ached, but not badly; the headache was (mostly) an unpleasant memory; the nausea wouldn't hit (probably) for another few hours, giving her time to digest something. Appetite wasn't a problem. She was always hungry these days, and even though Karl had explained why, it annoyed her.

Glancing at the clock beside the bed, she noted that it had been nearly an hour since her last meal. With a resigned sigh she rolled to the edge of the bed and sat, then rose carefully and made her way to the kitchenette.

##

_** 11:30am – near Cambridge, Massachusetts **_

Entropy is a persistent beast, and often works paw-in-paw with Mother Nature to undo the workings of 'civilized' furkind. The abandoned gas station where Karl had set up his communications system was a good example. It had only been closed for two and a half years, but already the pavement behind the small cinder-block building was all but hidden by the grass and weeds growing up through it. This street, once a reasonably busy thoroughfare threading its way through several neighborhoods on the way to nearby Cambridge, was a victim of progress. A six-lane toll road had pressed through, riding indifferently across the existing districts and bisecting any number of streets. This road now came to an abrupt halt not seventy meters from the gas station. No business that depends on traffic can survive on a dead-end street, and the station's owners knew that. They had wisely moved on while they still had some savings in the bank.

Not that any of that mattered to Karl. He chose it because of its proximity to a radio tower he could use.

#

Dedrick Timmun's phone rang twice before he picked it up. "Good morning, Gulo."

"Doubtless you are aware that I'm going by Luscus these days."

"Whatever. I can't help thinking of you by your given name."

"Whatever blows your headfur back, I guess. So," he asked, "what did you guys come up with?"

Rajid answered, "Right to the point. Very well, are you familiar with Cary?"

"Familiar enough."

They went on to describe the location of the warehouse. Karl asked several questions, told them he'd call back in three days, and then he hung up.

The four agents looked at each other. Capra shrugged and offered, "Guess dat went about as good as it could. T'ink he'll go for it?"

"I expect," said Rajid, leaning back in his chair and resting the tips of his fingers against each other, "that he will travel to Cary and look over the site in question before calling us back."

"Ya t'ink he'll spot da team?"

"Indubitably. I have left instructions for Foxworth and Miggs to putter around in plain sight."

"Miggs, huh?" Capra raised one shaggy eyebrow. "He's been up close ta Gulo before. Recent."

The mongoose said, "Spare me the disapproving looks. I have good reason to believe that they will be safe. Gulo will restrict his activities to reconnaissance."

"You sure o' dat, are ya?"

"I am sure enough not to worry. As you yourself pointed out on more than one occasion, Gulo appears to have reformed himself rather completely."

"Yeah. I jist don' want 'im ta feel … I dunno … t'reatened. He'll recognize Miggs in a second, an' we don' know 'xackly how he'll react. An' ya know w'at happened when dose purists kidnapped 'is apprentice."

"This situation is completely unrelated. Gulo is perspicacious enough to realize that they are no threat. They should be fine." He stood. "Let us get packed.

##

_** 4:00pm – Chicago **_

Traffic along Michigan Avenue was slowing as rush hour got up some steam. For the furs in a large panel truck with polarized windows, motoring along at somewhat less than the average speed, that was all to the good. The vehicle's roof sported no fewer than five small but highly sophisticated antennae, with which they hoped to eavesdrop on a certain never-sufficiently-damned wolverine. They'd been in town for a few days, and so far had precisely zilch to show for their efforts. But they were patient. This game was most definitely worth the candle, as Madame had made clear.

The light turned green in front of them, and the driver guided them slowly and carefully along the road. It wasn't the first time they'd been this way. Likely it wouldn't be their last.

##

_** 4:10pm – near Ash Creek Inn **_

Vermont's forests were in full leaf, and on either side of the road cool, green shade tempted the traveler. Karl had other things on his mind, though, as he directed his small truck in under the trees. Parking far enough away from the shoulder to be difficult to notice, he unlimbered a sensor array and took several readings on the Inn. When he'd established that there were no significant life signatures in the area, he packed it back up and trundled on.

Stopping in the driveway, he examined the front of the old house. The place looked startlingly good; sunlight glanced off the gleaming roof, and the unblemished clapboard sported new white paint. The Folly's leaded panes stood in proud, diagonal rows, and the stained glass in the front door showed no sign of ever having been anywhere else. After doing a quick scan for electronics and setting up a broad-spectrum jamming signal to foil any passive devices, Karl tooled around back, parked, and came in through the kitchen. Everything was in perfect order, even the spotless dishes in the cupboard and the new array of spices in the hall pantry, which had been completely rebuilt in stained poplar, and coated with a slick layer of some ultra-hard resin.

He made a quick canvass of the building, finding himself extremely pleased with the job his contractors had done. In the middle of the western side Upper Passage he found a small decorative table with two thick envelopes, one addressed to him and the other to Wendy. His contained a manifest of the work done and the materials used, and hardcopies of all the receipts. The total cost, while a very substantial figure, was a good bit less than Karl had allowed for; he congratulated himself for choosing them.

"Well," he muttered under his breath, "it looks like everything is in order. I guess once we get Wendy's condition under control, she can move back here for good." Silently he added, _and I hope I can come with her._

##

_** Wednesday 2 August 2017 – 10:30am – Chicago **_

The curtains were carefully drawn, keeping light in the suite to a minimum. This morning's headache had been a doozey, and Wendy didn't want to take any chances that it might return. Noise wasn't a welcome intrusion either, so she kept the sound level on her PA set to its lowest point. That also meant that when she heard Karl's ringtone, crossing the room to get to it was something of a chore. Holding herself gingerly erect, she whispered, "Hi."

"Hon, I need you to do something for me."

"not … so loud."

"Sorry." He modulated his voice to match hers. "I'm sending some information to your PA. You know that warehouse in Gurnee I told you about?"

"… yes."

"You're getting the coordinates, among several other things."

"… okay."

"You sound really stressed."

"Bad morning. Can I sleep now?"

"Sure, Hon. I'll call later, after you've napped."

"… okay. Love you."

"Love you, too."

##

_** 2:10pm **_

As it happened, _she_ called _him_ back. "Hey, Sweetie. I looked over what you sent me."

"Good! You sound better."

"Nap. Lunch. Second nap. Second lunch. I recommend it."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Are you in North Carolina yet?"

"Yep. Got here last night, late."

"Have you had any sleep?"

"Enough. I've been to the site they requested. I can see how they'd think it would be a decent place to catch me off guard, but I can also see a number of holes in their setup."

"Just don't miss any, okay?"

"Right. I'll know it better than they do." He cleared his throat and asked, "So you got the coordinates and Lee's contact info and all the other stuff for the contractors and whatnot?"

"I got a bunch of stuff." She read through the list while he listened.

"Yep, that's everything."

"Why do I have Lee Evans' number?"

"Oh, just in case. You know. Backup."

"Backup?"

"Always have a Plan 'B'. And Plans 'C' and 'D' if possible."

"Ah … ooookay. What is he then, the cavalry?"

"If need be. He told me that if I ever needed any sort of quick and quiet relocation that I should let him know."

"Relocation?"

"In the way of an extraction, military-style."

"Huh. So he's Mr. Pull-Your-Nuts-Outta-The-Fire."

"Something like that. He has connections."

Wendy was silent for a few seconds, and then said, "Karl …

"… Yes?"

"Why now?"

"Why _what_ now?"

"Dear, don't play coy. You suck at it. You're afraid something's going to happen to you."

"Don't be silly."

"_You_ don't be silly! Per Occam's Razor there isn't another plausible explanation. You're afraid they'll get you! You're afraid you won't be coming back!"

"I have _every_ intention of coming back. I wouldn't go if I thought they could catch me. This is just information I figured you needed to know. I'd have given it to you anyway, even if we'd decided to stay holed up in Chicago for years."

She let that percolate a bit.

"Sweetheart, please don't worry about me. They aren't going to be trying to _kill_ me, for goodness sake. And I can take care of myself."

"Yes, I know you can. I know I shouldn't worry. But that's a wife's prerogative."

"I understand. But I'll see you in a few days, okay?"

"Oh, all right."

"Meanwhile, you rest."

"Yes, Sir, Mr. Husband, Sir!"

That earned her a chuckle.

##


	10. Chapter 5 Best Laid Plans Part B

_**Chapter Five – Best-Laid Plans – Part B**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Friday 4 August 2017 – 10:00am – Boston **_

Karl spoke first when Dedrick picked up the phone. "I looked the site over. It should serve admirably."

Capra cocked an eye at Rajid. They'd made a small side bet on whether or not the ISB agents stationed all around the warehouse would be able to spot Gulo. Capra had bet against it. "Looks like yer pickin' up lunch, Raj."

A sour expression crawled across the mongoose's face, fading into resignation. He turned to the phone. "You were there personally?"

"Well, yeah. Say 'Hi' to Miggs and Foxworth for me. And you can tell 'em they need to work on their 'casual' façade. Anyfur who watched those two for five minutes would be able to tell they weren't there to actually accomplish anything. Does Miggs even know how to _work_ a transit?"

"I did not inquire. It was, as you surmised, a prop. Nothing more."

"Heh. Figures. Oh, and you can tell Tammy that she'll find her keys in the electrical box on the southeastern corner of Lot 'A'."

None of the four agents had anything to say to that immediately. Finally Capra asked, "Ya mean _youse_ took 'er keys?"

"I was multitasking. It gave her something to occupy her time, and it kept her pretty much in one spot."

"Ah … um … yeah."

"No hard feelings."

"Right."

"Great. Then I'll see you fellows there Sunday at noon."

##

_** 1:30pm – Chicago **_

"You got the next one on the list?"

Tanner consulted his PA. "Yeah."

Katherine nosed their car into traffic and headed north. She glanced over at the grizzled old rabbit. "How far?"

"About two and a half klicks." He gave her the name of the hotel in question and then lapsed into silence. She put up with it for several blocks and then asked, "Does this assignment bother you _that_ much?"

"Only if I let myself think about how useless it is."

"You still don't believe he's in Chicago?"

"I _know_ he ain't. He'll be in North Carolina, checking out the meeting place. He can't do that from here, I don't care _how_ good he is."

"It won't be useless if we find his wife."

"All that'll do is piss Gulo off. You want that?"

"And all Rajid wants to do is talk to her. It's not like he's gonna throw her in a dungeon. She hasn't broken any laws, you know."

"Hmph. Moot point anyway. We won't find her. Wild goose chase."

"Yeah, well. We'll see." _Sour old fart. Here I am trying to maintain a good attitude about all this basic legwork, and he's mister doom-n-gloom. Much help that is._

They parked behind the hotel, trooped inside, and contacted the manager. This would make the twenty-third place of lodging they'd investigated in the last five days. On four occasions someone on the staff had identified Wendy as a guest, but in each case the vixen in question had proven to be someone else.

This time, though, two of the maids identified Gulo. Katherine and Tanner looked at each other; she licked her lips and said, "North Carolina, huh?" Turning back to the manager, she told him, "Please keep all your people away from that room for the time being. And we need to see the surveillance films from their floor if you don't mind."

#

In the hotel garage sat a panel truck with polarized windows. The four weasels inside, each a relative of Madame Schmedtte's, sat in a tense huddle around the monitor, listening for every tinny syllable the two agents uttered. They had been trying to track down Gamma on their own until these two showed up at one of the hotels they were casing. A quick call to their superiors had redirected their efforts: if the ISB did the tracking for them, so much the better. Once the wolverine was secured, they could swoop in, kill the agents, and take Gamma for themselves. And now it looked as if the plan might actually work.

#

Wendy awoke from her nap ravenous, but otherwise feeling reasonably sound. A quick check of the kitchenette confirmed that she'd have to restock _very_ soon. In the meantime, that's what room service was for. Unfortunately, when she called the concierge he stammered out that they'd had a semi-major mishap in the kitchen, and that it would be as much as an hour before they could bring anything up. She tried not to let her irritation at the news have the upper paw. Stuff happened, she told herself, and she should know that as well as anyone. While waiting for the food to get up to their floor, she cleaned out the snacks in the mini-bar and made heavy inroads on the contents of the fridge and the cabinets. She had done away with all the fish and yogurt and most of the veggies and was carving up an apple when the knock came.

She popped a slice into her mouth, chewing as she trotted over to the door, absently holding onto the knife. This she later identified as one of those freaky coincidences the _WRITER_ was so fond of.

#

Once they had identified which suite Gamma had settled in, the four Trenchant Furs decided not to wait on the ISB. They'd go ahead and capture the wolverine and his frail and be gone before those idiots realized anything was wrong. Madame had supplied them with extremely-high-potential taser-like weapons that she had assured them would fry Gamma's nervous system and take him down, quickly and cleanly.

One of them, dressed in the short red coat and white shirt he'd taken off a member of the hotel staff, stood in front of the door with a food cart. The other three flanked the door, their guns ready, as Wendy turned the knob.

#

"I really, _really_ think," the old rabbit grumped, "that it would be safer to call them first."

"He won't hurt us. You heard what Capra said. He might tie us up so he can escape, but he won't hurt us."

Tanner shook his head and leaned against the elevator wall. "I'm gettin' too old for this shit."

_I couldn't agree more._ But Katherine kept silent.

The elevator was less than eight meters from the door, so the two agents had an excellent view of the tableau when they stepped into the hall.

#

Both near-side gun-furs jerked around to look at the pair as they exited the elevator. The closest one immediately fired. Four parallel projectiles, each about half the diameter and length of a standard pencil, and charged with over a hundred thousand volts, struck Katherine in the abdomen. She spasmed violently and hit the floor. Tanner had already jerked his side-arm and got off two shots before he ducked back into the elevator, grabbed Katherine's twitching paw, and hauled her in with him. He yanked out his PA and pressed the red EMERGENCY button.

Tanner's second round struck the fur that shot Katherine, blowing a chunk out of the weasel's descending aorta and knocking him back against the wall. He slid down onto the carpet and proceeded to bleed out.

#

As she was pulling the door open, Wendy got an uneasy tickle at the base of her neck. Something was wrong. Some**_one_** was wrong. So she had a tiny fraction of a second to react when the fur with the cart pushed it hard, slamming the door back into the wall simultaneously with a pair of loud reports. That fraction was all she needed; muscle-memory took over as she sprang well back from the door.

The other three weasels, already committed to the plan, couldn't stop to do anything for their wounded companion. The first attacker stormed in behind his cart while the other two fired over his shoulders at a blurred shadow that might have been a vixen. Slipping instantly and easily into Augmented speed, she had no trouble dodging both shots. Using one of the ottomans as a launch pad, she leaped completely over the lead fur.

The assassin on the right received a devastating kick in the sternum; she left the paring knife in the other one's throat. Stopping herself with the doorframe, she whipped around and planted a foot in the small of the first fur's back, rupturing two disks and tearing a long rip in his colon. The shock rendered him instantly unconscious.

She paused, every sense at maximum, listening for any other attackers. When ten seconds ticked by without further incident, she pulled the two gun-furs out of the way, closed the door and locked it, and ran for her PA.

##


	11. Chapter 5 Best Laid Plans Part C

_**Chapter Five – Best-Laid Plans – Part C**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Friday 4 August 2017 – __3:11pm **_

As she walked along the row of warehouses in Gurnee, the big number '23' was the most welcome sight Wendy could have imagined. She fished out the key Karl had told her about and unlocked the small door, then tapped in the lengthy code on the keypad. When she got inside with the door locked behind her, she drew the first truly relieved breath she'd had in the last hour and a half.

"Okay, Honey," said Karl's voice in her ear, "do you see the really big crate off to the right?"

"The one with doors on the front?"

"That's it."

"Got it." She walked over to it, adjusting the volume down on her PA's remote ear bud. It was a great deal quieter inside the warehouse.

"The passcode for the lock is 4172821599." He waited while she punched it in.

When she got the doors open she stood back and whistled. "Looks like the cockpit from the space shuttle."

"Nah. It's way more sophisticated than that."

After pulling out the integrated stool and adjusting it for her height, she seated herself and said, "Okay, what's first?"

Karl talked her through the setup sequence. Once she was into the satellite network, they broke the connection between their PA's. Wendy picked up the pawset and said, "Can you hear me now?"

"Maybe if I move a little to the right."

"Ha-ha. You're already about as hard-right as they come."

Karl leaned back in his seat and gave a haggard chuckle. He'd been half-insane with worry since she first called him after the attack. He instructed her to get out of the building as quickly as possible without being seen, and then directed her, via public transportation and eventually a taxi, away from the city and toward the safest nearby place he knew. Now that she was in a defensible position, his relief was almost a physical thing.

Wendy switched the unit to 'speaker' and hung it back up. "Hey, Husband o' mine?"

"Yes, Hon?"

"Have I told you lately how much I appreciate all that martial arts training you put me through?"

"Not in the last seventeen and a half minutes."

"Well I'll tell you again. Thank you. I'd be dead, otherwise."

"Please, _please_, _**please**_ don't say things like that. I can't even _conceive_ of your not being with me."

"Then I guess you know how _**I**_ feel now."

"Hm." He paused and shuddered. "I guess I do."

They spent the next hour mapping out her escape route back to Ash Creek. For a good while they batted around the question of which of the two vehicles to take, finally settling on the SUV. It could go off-road if she needed that ability, and there was a 250cc dirt bike stowed in the back, in case it was disabled for some reason. He had her fill the back seat with boxes of MREs. After noticing the label on one of them she complained, "Chicken Fajita? Even _I've_ heard that this abomination earned its nickname."

"Nickname?"

"Materials Resembling Edibles. Also known as Meals Rejected by the Enemy."

He chuckled and offered, "Swap it out for the Southwest Beef & Black Beans entrée. That one's not half bad."

She did so and then stowed a twenty-five liter water container on the passenger-side floorboard. Then she flopped down on the seat. "I'm all in."

"There's a cot in the right rear corner. It's folded up behind some ammo cans."

"Thanks." She pulled herself out of the vehicle and stumbled over to where the cot lived. Karl had thoughtfully stored a couple of blankets with it, but it was warm enough in the warehouse to make their use moot. Shortly she was stretched out in front of the communications unit. "I wish you had a shower in here."

"It isn't really that sort of …"

"I'm just jerkin' your chain. Don't worry about it."

"Oh. Right." She heard his sigh clearly over the comm-link. "I'm so glad you're safe."

She didn't respond right away, and when she did it caught him off guard. "Karl, today I … I killed three furs."

"… Uh … yeah, you kinda had to."

"Three. Those three guys are dead, and I killed them."

"Well I, for one, am much happier with _them_ being dead, as opposed to anything happening to _you_."

"Yeah. I realize that. But it feels … really weird. You know?"

"Yes. It does. I remember."

"Really? How old were you when you killed someone the first time? That is, I mean, the first time you killed someone. Not that you ever killed anybody twice. Or did you?"

"You know, when you get freaked out you tend to ramble like that."

"Oh, you think? Cut me some slack. You're an old paw at this killing thing."

"And you aren't. You've never killed anyone before."

"I've never even really _tried_. The closest I've been is when Jerry Strick found me at the Inn, and I wasn't _trying_ to kill him. Just, you know … disable him. Or … something."

"I'm sorry you had to do it. But I'm not sorry you did it, if you know what I mean."

"I do." She sighed and lay still a moment. "You didn't answer my question."

"Ah. I was thirty."

She sat back up, her eyes wide. "Thirty?"

"Yep."

"But … but that was _way_ before you got involved with the ISB!"

"Yes. It was. Would you like to hear the story?"

"I'll bet it's gory, isn't it?"

"Graphically so."

"Ugh. Um …" She thought it over and shrugged. "It's part of your past. So it's part of you … or at least part of what used to be you. So, yeah. Sure."

"Very well. The summer before I turned thirty-one I was working for Dow in their R&D department."

"And why am I not surprised?"

"Shush. My life had been relatively stable. Placid, almost, for about four years. I'd reconciled my differences with my father, we were on good terms, and I spent more time at their house than I did at my own."

"Were you seeing anyone?"

"Thinking about Pamela?"

"Maybe."

"I was seeing several someone's. But none of them was serious, and that doesn't have anything to do with the story."

"Okay."

"I got home from work to find my father in my driveway. He'd just gotten there, looking for my mother. She'd been out doing some shopping and a few errands and was a couple of hours late. Nobody had cell phones then, let alone PA's, but Father had developed something akin to a GMRS and we each had one. She wasn't answering hers. Long story short, she'd been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped!"

"Yes. She was … well, we were all colored differently. I've been mistaken for a hybrid my whole adult life. Really, ever since we moved away from Finland."

"Yeah, I can see that. You look like a cross between a weasel and a brown bear. Sort of. Tail's all wrong, though, and you're too dark, and …"

"You get the picture. Good. Anyway, there was this gang that had a big hate going for hybrids."

"Purists? Again?"

"They've been around as long as different species have been producing offspring, Wendy. You know that."

"Ick. I suppose I do. Sucks anyway."

"Yes, it does. So this gang kidnapped her, and … um, held her. For a week. They, ah, tortured her."

"I don't need any details."

"And then they left her in a dumpster. Father and I, and to some extent the local police, looked for her practically non-stop. We had photos up everywhere and pretty much the whole city on alert, so we think the garbage crew found her not too long after they'd … um …"

"Right. So she was alive?"

"Barely. We both stayed right there with her in the hospital for two solid weeks, but we slowly realized that she probably wasn't going to get better any time soon. What she'd … been through … had broken her mind."

"Oh, Karl! Oh … damn, Karl."

"Yes. Father and I took a three-week trip through a hell of worry and despair, and when we walked out the other side, everything had been burned away except a thirst for revenge."

"Uh … oh. That's one of those wolverine things."

"Very much so." He drew a long breath. "Father was already retired, as such. I quit my job. We spent the next twenty-one months tracking down and killing those responsible. Each time we found one of them, we'd send him an official notification of his impending death. And then …"

"Wait a minute … wait just a freakin' _**minute!**_ That was in 1980 and '81?"

"And on into '82, yes."

"Karl! I remember _hearing_ about that!"

"You do?"

"Yes! Damn! That was _you?_"

"What did you hear?"

"Well … Dad tried to keep it away from me, or the gruesome details, anyway. But I saw a couple of short pieces on the news, and read one article and a few editorials in the paper. One of 'em really stuck with me."

"It must have, since you were only seven at the time."

"It was so … bizarre. The way he was … the way he'd been … disassembled. That's what I remember. And you left him strung out between those two poles and … wow."

"Ah. That one was Father's doing; I was just support for that kill. Number five, if I recall correctly."

"Uff." She shivered. "Considering who the victims were, most of the editorials leaned toward support for the … yes! They called you the Vigilante Assassin! They never did figure out who was doing it."

"No, they didn't."

"So that _was_ you."

"Yes.

"Does the ISB know about …"

"No. The only other furs I've ever talked to about this are dead, and as far as I know no one else ever connected all the dots. So you have some unique information now."

"Well. I feel special." She rubbed her forehead and lay back down. "And slightly nauseous."

"Huh. Seems like it's coming on a bit early today."

"Probably all the stress." She did some deep breathing for a minute and then asked, "Did you get them all?"

"I think so."

"And how many was that?"

"Seventeen."

She whistled. "Did your mother ever … recover?"

"No. She regained consciousness, sort of, a few months later, and they moved her to a rest home. She spent the last five years of her life staring at the wall. She never … never spoke. Not once. She'd feed herself, use the facilities, bathe. But she never acknowledged the presence of anyone else."

"Oh, _God_, Karl!"

"By April of '82 we had crossed off all but two names on our list. During that next-to-last execution, Father got … sloppy. Careless. I think he'd stopped caring whether he lived or died months before. And he got shot."

"Oh, no!"

"It paralyzed him from the waist down. He moved into the nursing home where Mother was. But as far as I know, he never spoke to her. I think the doctors discouraged it, for his own sake. There wasn't much of her left."

"Holy hell, Karl! That's … that's _awful!_"

"Yes."

"But they're both dead now, right? I think you said that before."

"Father died in 1993. Heart attack. He was ninety-six. My mother … killed herself. In 1985, on her seventieth birthday. There was a new orderly. He didn't know she wasn't supposed to have anything sharp."

"Son. Of. A. Bitch."

"And that's why I had occasion to kill someone at the age of thirty."

Wendy lay silently for a few moments. "… Sweetie?"

"Yes?"

"I'm going to take a nap now."

"I hope your dreams are pleasant."

"God, so do I."

##

_** 5:20pm **_

It was a silent group that gathered in the small meeting room at ISB headquarters. Capra looked up as the door opened to admit Angela Lapine. She had traces of matted fur on her cheeks that no amount of brushing could erase. Judging from her expression, she was set to wet them down again. He got up and came around the table, gave her a brief hug and helped her to sit.

Watching him with heavy, haunted eyes, she said, "I got the … arrangements made. Darrel's taking care of the details."

"T'anks, kid. I know it's tough."

"She was … one of my bridesmaids."

_Damn!_ "She was a … a good friend. She had lotsa good friends, Angie."

"Capra, I'm a terrible, horrible, awful person."

"Huh?"

"The first thing I thought of when I heard she'd … she'd been …" She sniffed and fought for control. "First thing that went through my mind was, _It should have been Tanner._" She scrubbed at her eyes briefly, undoing her earlier efforts at smoothing her fur. "I hope he can … I mean, I hope I … hope …"

Capra took her paws in his. "Don' worry 'bout it, kiddo. Dat's a natch'ral reaction. Youse ain't da first. Ya won't be da last."

Wayne Nutu had watched this interchange without seeming to see it. His fingers drummed lightly on the table in a desultory staccato with no apparent pattern. He said, "We get up every day and think we'll go to work and eat lunch and keep the country safe from thugs and get back home and have supper and go to bed and do it again tomorrow."

Capra looked over at him. "Yeah. Dat's how ya get t'roo da day."

The meerkat nodded. "It's a defense mechanism. If we brooded on what could happen, we'd never get anything accomplished." He caught Capra's gaze. "Then some shit like this happens, and it all crumbles."

The big canine sat down heavily. "I ain't got da answers, bro. We do our jobs, we roll da dice, and most o' da time we win. Kat rolled snake-eyes t'day."

Angela mumbled, "Hate stupid coincidences. How did those TFN agents find out about Gulo? Doesn't make any damn sense!"

At that point the monitor on the table clicked to life. In a few seconds the screen resolved to a headshot of Rajid. The unit was one of the new ones, with semi-holographic rendering. It was as if Rajid was under the table and his head was actually inside the monitor there. So they all had a clear view of his terrible, terrible eyes.

Capra was suddenly very glad that the duty of telling Katherine's parents hadn't fallen on his shoulders.

Rajid said, "I am about an hour away from the Malama's home. Has transportation been arranged for Katherine's body?"

Angela nodded. "Darrel's taking care of it."

"Good. I want to get her back to them as soon as possible." He paused long enough to swallow. "How is Tanner holding up?"

"He ain't talkin' much."

"He will be on leave for two weeks while the investigation is underway. Do you have someone who can stay with him?"

"He mentioned somet'in' about goin' ta stay wit' his oldest boy in Annapolis."

"That would be well." He looked at each of them in turn. "We will proceed with the operation as planned. If Gulo calls and cancels, we will arrange a different time or place. But we will assume that he has no knowledge of how close we came to making contact. Tanner never saw him, so it is reasonable to conclude that he never saw us. He only had contact with the ones he killed."

"But he'll know dere was somefur else in da hall."

"I will admit the circumstances are … troubling … from his standpoint. He can't know who the shooter was. But as far as he would be able to tell, it could have been a private citizen."

"In Chicago? Raj, c'mon! Dere ain't no CC in dat burg. It woulda had ta be a LEO of some kind."

"There is truth in that. But he left so quickly that he couldn't have found out much, if anything."

"Yeah. So we keep on pluggin'."

"We do."

##

_** 8:42pm **_

"They failed. They failed, and now they are dead. That is the price for failure."

Madame Schmedtte said this to herself, over and over, but it didn't help much. The wolverine had fooled them all, her and the ISB together. Everyone thought he was in North Carolina. But, no … he'd been snug in his hotel in Chicago all along. And advanced weaponry notwithstanding, he had killed the four furs that tracked him there.

Well … he killed three of them. The ISB agent had killed one. Tanner. She had another name on her list now, and tried to achieve some small measure of consolation from the news that one of the ones who killed Rijker had died as well. Katherine Malama would trouble them no more. A weapon designed to subdue Gamma was serious overkill for a normal fur.

But Gamma still lived, was still free. _For the moment._

She read again the latest transmission from her mole in the ISB. Her best agents were even now surrounding the warehouse in Cary. They would stay well back. They would watch. And they would see what might be done.

##


	12. Chapter 6 Surprise!

**_Chapter Six – Surprise!_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**The enemy is anybody who's going to get you killed,  
****no matter which side he's on.**

**- _Joseph Heller_**

##

_** Sunday 6 August 2017 – 11:40am – Cary, North Carolina **_

Days like this one made Capra intensely glad that he didn't live in the South. "At least I'm not in dat old warehouse," he muttered. "Dat t'ing's a frakkin' oven."

"Indeed," replied Rajid. "The close-observation teams have my sympathy. But we cannot do this any other way."

"Yeah, I know." His muzzle gave a wry twist, a state indicated only by the position of his ever-present stogie since his fur was long and disheveled enough to hide most of his facial expressions. "Trina ain't gonna be fit ta live wid after dis is all tied up."

"Then Agent Erinaceous can just get over it."

Capra's head swung around to stare at his superior for a moment. He gave him an unreadable look and then turned his attention back to the monitors.

And indeed, Trina was every bit as unhappy as Capra had guessed. Thom Verrid, the weasel with whom she'd been partnered for this day's operation, had endured a steady monologue of deprecating adjectives concerning the sanity of the locals. In her opinion, anyfur who would voluntarily live in a place where an ambient temperature of forty-five could _ever_ be paired with saturation-level humidity was a candidate for the laughing academy. He didn't mind it so much himself, but he did feel sorry for Trina. She was a temperate-zone species, and had a _vast_ preference for cold weather. Over the last half-hour, though, his pity had developed a few thin spots. He made an attempt to get her mind off the torrid atmosphere on the mezzanine. "Any idea how Dedrick's holding up?"

"Eh? Oh. No. Not after that last tactical. I haven't seen him since we got here. Why do you ask?"

"I've always been curious how the worm feels while it's being lowered into the water on a hook. Maybe I'll get the chance to find out, once the swap gets made."

"Yeah, he was sweatin'. And it didn't have anything to do with this double-damned heat. I'm just glad it's not me."

"Thee and me, T."

She sent him a sidelong glance. "Y'know, that little exchange is the first thing I've heard out of your muzzle that might be referred to as 'banter' since Kath …"

"I'd prefer not to talk about it."

She shrugged, said, "No prob," toweled her face off one more time, and turned back to her camera. Thom had her most sincere sympathies. He had partnered with Katherine quite frequently, much more often than she had. She held strong suspicions that they'd been _more_ than just partners, but she wasn't about to broach a subject that screamed 'taboo' as loudly as that one did. His wife might have something to say about it.

Thom cleared his throat. "Why do you think Gulo picked him?"

_Ah-huh. Changing the subject. Just as well. _ "Couple reasons, probably. First off, Dedrick won't try anything himself."

"That should apply to all of us."

"Eh. Granted. Okay, for two, Dedrick's the one who dug up the info. If he doesn't deliver the goods, Gulo might hold him responsible."

"Lame."

"Okay, fine! You got a better idea?"

"Happens I do. Dedrick's a good data-retrieval specialist, but the most exercise he gets on an average day is lifting a full coffee cup. He can't get out of his own way, and if Gulo feels like he needs a hostage, Dedrick wouldn't be able to do anything to stop him."

"And you could?"

"Well … more than Dedrick."

"Sounds like that 'jump the Grand Canyon' thing to me."

"Huh?"

"You know. If Dedrick tries to jump the Grand Canyon, he'll make it about a meter before falling. But see, you're in _lots_ better shape. You'll make it four or five meters."

"Oh. I see. Before falling. You really think it's as bad as that?"

"You ever listen to some of Capra's stories? He's been spinnin' 'em off pretty regular these last weeks."

"Well … not really."

"Then, yes. I _do_ think it's as bad as all that. If our entire team jumped him at once, I don't think it would even slow him down much, let alone stop him. I mean, what are you gonna do about somebody who can hit harder than a sledge hammer, and do it several times a second?"

"… Good point."

Karl had to repress a chuckle at that comment. There were four of these conversations going on in various parts of the warehouse, and he could hear them all if he concentrated. _I guess I've made quite an impression._

One of the aspects of his early training under his father was a study of Sun Tzu's _The Art of War_. Of course that was standard curriculum material for the average MBA these days, but Karl was pretty sure that he'd gleaned more from it than the average reader. Getting inside your foe's head, and making sure he stayed out of yours, offered amazing advantages in a situation like this one. For example, they _expected_ him to show up after they did. They _expected_ him to come in one of the four entrances to this primary space. But one of the tenets of his training was 'Do the unexpected.' So he'd snuck in the night before and had spent the intervening time establishing the exact location of each of their hiding places. Now, he was perched in the upper curve of the biggest I-beam in the major roof support truss, about eight meters above the spot where Dedrick was to stand.

If his errand hadn't been so serious he would really be enjoying himself. In the time since the ISB teams had set up their traps – and he felt that referring to them as 'traps' was stretching the point a bit – he had managed to sneak around and disable each arming system. Now, they could press the firing studs all day if they felt like it: there wouldn't be any neural-damping nets flying around. He was particularly proud of the feedback units he'd left in place at each trap. If the ones running the equipment pinged the control box for functionality, it would show all systems hot.

He checked his chronometer. _Okay! Ten minutes to show time._ He eased a PowerBar out of one of his pockets and popped it into his mouth.

At about two minutes of noon, Dedrick appeared at one end of the long, empty space, marching resignedly down to his appointed spot. Karl could pick up whispered snatches here and there.

"_Any movement on the north end?"_

"_All my equipment is flat-lined."_

"_Where the hell is he? You don't think he'll _fly_ in, do you?"_

"_Not likely, unless he's riding a ballistic."_

"_Don't laugh. I wouldn't put that past him."_

"_Are you sure all the other doors are locked?"_

"_Locked and blocked. If he's coming, he's coming in one of these."_

"_I can do without the suspense. What the hell is he up to?"_

As the time ticked over to twelve o'clock, Karl checked his mooring line one more time and stepped off into the air. He fell the eight meters to the concrete, slowed only slightly by the drag from the line, and landed easily about two meters in front of Dedrick. The portly meerkat startled badly, gave a terrified _yip!_ and dropped the briefcase he carried as he fell back onto his rear.

"**_Holy shi_****_t__!_** Gulo! Shit! Tryin' ta kill me?"

"Not at all. This was just the most effective way to get here." He grinned to himself at the various shocked and outraged remarks coming from the unseen observers. Giving a nod to the briefcase, he asked, "That for me?"

_#_

_"He's on the ground."_

_"Excellent. Activate stealth mode and move in."_

_#_

Dedrick was clutching his chest, trying to will his heart rate back below one-fifty. "… Yes. Dammit, Gulo! A little heads-up wouldn't have hurt!"

"Lots more fun this way, though."

"Sadistic bastard."

"Dedrick! I'm hurt!"

"Uh-huh."

Karl offered him a paw, which the meerkat regarded with suspicion and finally took, and then helped to brush him off. "Sorry about your suit."

"What?"

"Got a rip back there."

"I'll file an expense report." He flashed a surreptitious glance at the huge wolverine and asked, "Did you bring the plans?"

Karl fished a tiny, plastic cube out of a pocket. "Right here. Tell Rajid he can build the thing, but it won't be cheap."

"And the munitions?"

"It's all there. I even threw in a few bonus compounds. I'm sure he can make good use of it."

_#_

_"Perimeter breach in ten."_

_"Copy."_

_"Eight … Seven …"_

_#_

Trina's hackles twitched. She cocked her head, wondering at a new vibration in the steel lattice floor. "Thom, you feel that?"

"… Yeah. What the hell?"

She tapped her com. "Rajid, something's wrong."

Dedrick looked at the cube. "What system is this? Holographics?"

"Yep. There's about sixteen terabytes on that cube, so be careful with it."

Karl lifted the briefcase out of Dedrick's paw. "And I think this is my cue to …" He stopped, twitched an ear, and tensed himself.

In a series of near-simultaneous crashing reports, eight large and wicked-looking vehicles roared in through the warehouse walls.

Rajid yelled, "What the bloody hell's going on?"

"We got bogeys, Raj!" He flipped his com circuit to wide-open and shouted, "Incoming! Abort! Get outta there!"

The second the huge armored things broke in, Karl knew they were no part of the ISB's plan. Dedrick's shocked expression would have told him that, even if he hadn't had prior information. Making an instant decision, he grabbed Dedrick and activated the retrieval function of his cable system. They shot toward the roof at six meters a second.

Rajid's rising panic made his voice tremble. "Does anyone have an ID on those ATCs?"

Capra scanned all his monitors. "No marks, Raj! Must be mercs!" He flinched when three screens flashed white and died. "Hell on a crutch!"

Four of the vehicles, all pointed roughly toward the center where Karl and Dedrick stood, unleashed a barrage of tiny spikes, just like the ones they'd tried to use in Chicago. Only this time there were too many to dodge. The other four began launching grenades around the warehouse, which was very shortly opaque with dust and flying debris.

Karl had his paws full with Dedrick and the cable, but he was trying to reach for one of his neuroshock bombs when the deadly stream of fire crossed their path. The pain of the impacts was starkly indescribable, and the big wolverine jerked violently, trying to get away from it. Several more hit, his system overloaded, and he lost consciousness. Dedrick, who had been hit many times himself, slipped from his arm and fell several meters to the concrete. He didn't move.

After strafing the area for ten seconds, the firing stopped. Two of the vehicles then disgorged a dozen heavily-armed agents on foot, who fanned out and began searching through what was left of the warehouse.

One of the first grenades had taken out some of the support structure for the mezzanine Thom and Trina occupied. They were dumped unceremoniously on the floor as a couple of tons of steel framework slammed down around them. Trina curled up and dodged left, then right, then pushed off a piece of rubble in time to avoid a section of roof. Thom … wasn't quite fast enough. Trina gasped and coughed and shook her head, trying to get his blood out of her eyes, and wiping them as best she could. The haze of smoke and dust limited vision to about a meter, but she could _hear_ just fine, explosions notwithstanding, thanks to the damping effects of the com unit she wore. She pulled her 10mm sidearm and cocked it. After a second to think about it, she eased over and got Thom's as well. He wouldn't be needing it.

Skulking as quietly as possible, she followed the intruders' progress by sound. They were talking – shouting, really – apparently without the benefit of individual coms. She estimated their numbers at around twenty, and they were spreading out, if she was any judge of such things. _All right, you bastards. We'll see who __really__ wins this round._

_#_

_"She is in there somewhere.  
You will find her, and bring her to me.  
She must be alive, but you may use any means  
to capture her you like. Cut her legs off,  
if need be, but I want her still alive.  
I want to be the last thing she sees in this life."_

_"Yes, Madame." The mercenary turned to his unit  
and gave them a couple of brief instructions._

_Another of her teams called in.  
"Madame, we have Gamma."_

_Her muzzle curling into a vicious rictus that  
someone who didn't know her might mistake  
for a smile, she said,  
"Excellent. Secure him and get under way."_

_"Yes, Ma'am."_

#

A quick search of her fanny pack unearthed Trina's silencer. She screwed the bulky thing onto her sidearm, noting with concern that Thom's pistol didn't have the necessary fitting. Ejecting his clip into the pack, she did a quick inventory: three clips, each holding eleven rounds, plus one in the chamber equaled thirty-four shots. _Better make 'em count._

Capra and Rajid were racing for the munitions trailer behind their command center. Capra gritted out, "Dey got Gulo."

"What?"

"I seen it, da last t'ing dey did 'fore we skipped. Tossed 'im inta one o' dem rigs." He pointed at the retreating silhouette of a troop transport. "Bet he's in dere."

"So if they were after Gulo, why are the others still here? I can hear small-arms fire."

"Yeah. Wond'rin' about dat." He jerked open the door to the trailer and jumped in. "Got stuff in here dat outta give 'em somet'in' ta chew on." He passed Rajid a rocket launcher and said, "Hold dat for me."

#

The agents of the ISB could get silencers for their weapons through regular channels, and those were serviceable enough, but Trina didn't want to just be _less_ noticeable. She wanted to be _quiet_. So her personal can was a custom job … highly custom. It made just slightly more noise than a sneezing cat.

She picked off six of the mercenaries at the back of the formation before one of them happened to turn and see the last one fall. As he was raising the alarm she closed his muzzle for him, but she knew things were about to get hairy. Ducking into full cover, she hurried away toward the rear of the building with a symphony of automatic fire as accompaniment. It was hard to stay out of sight of both the mercenaries and the transports, but she managed.

Those few mercenaries that remained in the transports certainly weren't bored. They monitored the mop-up, and were supposed to kill any ISB personnel that might happen to show up. None, however, had made an appearance.

Once Trina got a good, close look at one of them, she decided they were a product of 'local talent' rather than an established arm of someone's military. The armor was all welded plate tacked onto what looked for all the world like some kind of souped-up SUV, and its weight seemed to be straining the suspension. Access was through a door in the side instead of a hatch on top. Glancing across the mangled remains of the warehouse, she kept tabs on the mercenaries who were combing the wreckage she had lately occupied. She eased the door open a crack, peered in and listened. Then she slipped in. A few seconds later three subdued _bftt_ sounds came from the cockpit.

#

The explosions and the subsequent rain of debris had disoriented Wayne for a minute. By the time he got his faculties back under control, the enemy troops, as he thought of them, were almost on top of him.

"How we s'posed ta find anyfur in all this shit?"

"Know whatcha mean, Burt. I told 'em ta just use flash-bangs, but nooo, they had ta pull out the major crap. Be lucky if this damn box don't come down and smash us all."

Wayne could hear them clearly enough, but he couldn't see anything. Some sort of sheet metal fabrication (maybe a large section of ductwork?) had fallen over him. He wasn't exactly pinned, but he had precious little wiggle room. If the ducting hadn't been reinforced with radial fin-like things that stuck out half the length of his forearm every couple of meters, he really _would_ have gotten flattened. He lay completely still and listened.

"How much time we got?"

"Uh … looks like about two minutes."

"The others find anybody yet?"

"Not that I … holy shit! Stan says they got half a dozen down!"

Wayne heard quick, retreating footfalls, and drew a deep breath. Somebody was looking out for him.

#

Trina's voice came very softly into her superiors' ears. "Capra? You there?"

"Trina! T'ank God! You in one piece?"

"Yes. I'm between the two transports on the south end of things. You got any kind of counterattack coming?"

"Like ya won't believe, kid. Me & Raj are about ta open up a clock-cleanin' factory."

"Well I've already disabled these two, so concentrate on the other five. I'm going to ground."

"Yeah, you stay low. Who's wit' ya?"

"… Nobody. Thom didn't make it. I haven't seen any of the others."

Rajid mumbled, "Bloody hell."

#

The TFN agents in the northernmost troop carrier had no warning. Nothing pinged any of their detectors. That was because the micro-rocket's launching system used railgun technology, and it hit them at just over four klicks a second. They all died too quickly to understand what was happening.

The carrier just beyond them, however, had great seats for the show. Several pieces of the first vehicle ricocheted off theirs, and one sizeable chunk took out the front viewport.

Capra crowed his triumph. "Take dat ya sons o' bitches! Raj, I got me one!"

"Do you have sighting on another?"

"Betcher ass!"

"Do not miss. We have only three more of those rounds."

"Youse got it, Raj." He thumbed the stud to chamber another missile, drew a bead on the side of a troop carrier that he could see through the hole the first one made, and squeezed the trigger.

_#_

_"Fall back! Get the hell outta here!"_

_Madame Schmedtte gripped the communicator  
so hard her knuckles cracked.  
"You will not leave until you have  
secured Trina Erinaceous!"_

_"**Fuck that!** My grunts are gettin' clobbered!"_

_"You will not leave until …"  
There was a squawk of static and the com went dead.  
"Major!"  
She keyed the toggle a few times.  
"Major?"_

_#_

Trina watched as the two remaining high-speed armored vehicles beat a rapid retreat into the train yard. Her pistol held its 'ready' position for several more seconds, but then it wavered and dropped. She leaned against a scorched pillar and slid dejectedly to the ground.

"Hey, Toots, you still good?"

She sighed, and said, "Yeah. They got Gulo."

"I know. I saw it."

"Dedrick's dead. Thom's dead. You hear from any of the others?"

"Wayne's stuck up under somet'in' over on da north end. Suzanne and Tammy managed ta get outside, but deir com unit's control box got smashed. We didn' know dey was okay till a minute ago. I ain't heard from Terry's bunch yet."

She wiped at her face, scratched briefly at some grit in the fur on her forehead. "Capra, how'd they know we were here?"

"Dat's a damn good question, Trina."

Rajid added, "Yes. And one to which I intend to get the answer. Soon."

"How," Capra wanted to know, "did ya take out dem two ATC's?"

"The mercenaries were out hunting. I snuck in and shot the crew. There weren't but three of 'em. And I took the keys with me." She jingled her fanny pack. "Some of 'em came back to the first ATC when you started shooting. You never heard such language. They all ran off toward another one, but you blew it up just as they were about to take off."

"Yeah, I timed dat one. Bastards." He cocked an ear at the sound of approaching sirens. "Looks like da locals is on da way."

Trina groaned inwardly. _Well, __**this**__ should be just loads of fun._

##

_** much later **_

Consciousness returned to Karl slowly, accompanied by a blasted wasteland of pain. It took him several minutes to damp everything and take stock of his surroundings.

_It's pitch black._

_I'm in a metal box._

_My limbs are bound with what feels like fifty kilos of aircraft cable._

_There is a constant, thrumming vibration, reminiscent of aircraft engines._

_The air pressure is low._

_Yep. Looks like I'm pretty much buggered._

_This is going to hurt Wendy very badly._

He whispered, "I'm so sorry, Hon. You were right."

##


	13. Chapter 7 Hell Hath No Fury  Part A

_**Chapter Seven – Hell Hath No Fury … – Part A**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**One of our oldest needs  
****is having someone to wonder where you are  
****when you don't come home at night.**

_**-Margaret Mead**_

##

_** Thursday 10 August 2017 – 2:40pm – New Haven, Vermont **_

Depending on her symptoms, Wendy knew at the outset that she'd only have three or four, or (at the very outside) five hours of drive time in the middle of each day. She knew she'd have to stop at one of the pre-chosen motels well in advance of the onset of her evening nausea if she didn't want to have to wash out the vehicle. She knew the trip would be more exhausting than anything she'd done in a long time. Nevertheless, she started that first day in a positive frame of mind. She was going to meet Karl, he was going to have some answers about her condition – or at least be able to get a decent line on some answers – and they would be together from then on out. It was tough, but she managed, and even got a good, long night's sleep.

But then … hours of pounding headaches … heavy traffic, even on the secondary roads they had chosen for her route … a high percentage of brain-dead, moronic, or otherwise oblivious drivers. Yes, the second day of her four-day trek home had definitely been the worst.

That is, until the third day. That one was hell on Earth. Her physical symptoms, bad as they were, paled markedly when compared with the turmoil in her head. _Surely_ he could have found _some_ way to contact her by now! Even if his PA were damaged – a distinct possibility, given that she got no response at all when she tried to call him – he could have called her from a public system. He certainly had the resources to figure out _something_.

By the middle of the fourth day, Wendy was in full-blown panic mode. He'd promised – _promised!_ – that no matter what, even if all his electronic avenues were foiled, he would be there, waiting for her at the Inn when she arrived, ready to hold her and love her and confirm for her that all was well.

But all was _not_ well; he _hadn't_ been there. She didn't have a note, or a message, or a carrier pigeon or anything. Running through the huge old house, screaming his name over and over, hadn't accomplished much except to tire her out and leave her famished. So she ended up in the kitchen, where she prepared herself a large lunch.

Her mind whirled so fast its pinions were overheating; she ate mechanically, tasting nothing. When it finally sank in that there wasn't any food left on the table, she sat and stared out the window for a few minutes, and then gathered up her dishes and washed them. Then she stood there in front of the sink, rocking ever so gently back and forth, trembling with frustration.

_Why isn't he here?_

_I don't want to think about why he isn't here._

_I want him here!_

_Duh. What are you going to do about it?_

_He told me he'd be here._

_And something prevented that from happening._

_I can't think about that. I can't think about him being a prisoner._

_He said they would only try to catch him, not kill him. You shouldn't worry so much._

_I can't help it! What if he can't ever get away? What if I never see him again?_

_Do you really think the ISB can hold him for long?_

_I didn't **think** they could catch him in the first place! Neither did he! What if they have him in one of those suspended-animation tanks?_

_Or maybe he had a car wreck and is unconscious in a hospital somewhere._

_Or maybe he had a car wreck and is trapped under two tons of twisted metal in a ditch! Aiighhh!_

_Don't be stupid. I was being melodramatic._

_Well, what if he was just plain wrong about their intentions? What if it was all a ruse and they mean to kill him?_

She didn't have an answer for that. She was afraid of what it might be.

Finally, bursting with tormented impatience, she stalked out to the rear porch and flopped down into one of the Adirondack chairs. She could hear Ash Creek clearly as it tumbled along over the rocks, making its way toward the Hudson. The heavy snows of the previous winter had swelled the aquifers in the Northeast, bringing an abrupt end to a sometime drought that had lasted the previous two years. Though it hadn't overflowed yet, the soft and steady rains in the spring and early summer enabled the rapid stream to flirt with the tops of its banks.

Dozens of songbirds kept up a steady chatter through the wood. She'd learned a few of them last summer, but wasn't in the mood to pay any attention right now. Staring up at the porch's freshly painted ceiling only reminded her that Karl had done it for her. _I can just hear him, talking to himself. He wanted to show it off to me, I'll bet. But no, he had to go off on this fool's errand and get himself stuck._ Her eyes closed, and began to leak. But she got herself under control in a minute or so, pulled her legs up under her, and morosely pondered the whichness of why for a while.

For close to half an hour she gazed off into the deep, cool green between the house and the creek, not really seeing any of it. She was startled out of this brown study by …

_[ [ i greet you, daughter ] ]_

Her feet hit the boards with a hollow _thunk_; she sat forward, hard eyes meeting his gaze.

_[ [ you have much pain … i would know the cause ] ]_

"… Are you the same one?"

_[ [ the same one as what? ] ]_

"Same as when I was here before, back two seasons and more. You look like him but you don't sound like the same one."

_[ [ same … sameness … am i the same … you pose an interesting question ] ]_

"Interesting? Is that all you can say?"

_[ [ sameness is an illusion … you know that none of us ever drinks twice from the same river ] ]_

"Huh?"

_[ [ yes … this is true … each time we drink, the old water has passed by … and each time we drink, time has changed us as well ] ]_

"Do you know what happened to Karl?"

He stared at her, cocked his head, and replied,_ [ [ this question of yours has no meaning ] ]_

She pulled her feet back up into the chair and turned her face away. "Then you aren't much good to me, are you?"

The royal fox ambled over in her direction and sat at the foot of the stairs. He regarded her in silence for a space.

_[ [ it is the pain of lost love ] ]_

"… He is _**not**_ lost. He … he _can't_ be."

_[ [ but you do not know … you seek assurance ] ]_

Her muzzle compressed into a thin line. "And you can't provide it. So please just leave me alone."

He sat there, golden eyes accusing, swishing his brush occasionally, until Wendy couldn't stand it any more. She climbed out of the chair and stomped inside. As she reached the Main Hall and started up the rear staircase, his voice echoed in her mind.

_[ [ if it is true that you cannot do anything for him … if you have no power in this situation … then you should turn your efforts to other tasks where you do have control ] ]_

Pausing with her foot between one step and the next, she whispered, "Are you saying I should just give up on him? Because I can promise you that _**ain't**_ gonna happen."

_[ [ only do what you may, daughter … do what you may … and trust ] ]_

She let go a frustrated _huff_ and demanded, "Trust? What does that mean? Trust who?" When no answer was forthcoming, she went back over to the rear windows to look for him. There was no sign of the fox.

_Well, he certainly __**acts**__ like the same fox._ She frowned, muttering, "What did he mean? Do what I may … and trust?" Thoughtfully, she let her feet find the stairs and climbed toward her old room. On her way she began finally to notice a few details. The banister, for example, was whole. Her last memory of it was as a splintered ruin. Gazing down at the parquet flooring in the Main Hall, she noted the gleaming, unbroken surface that had previously sported several dozen bullet holes. In fact, there was no evidence she could spot that a minor war had taken place here. _Wow. He told me he'd had some work done on the place. He didn't mention it would look like __Extreme Makeover__._

Once in her room she plumped herself down on the bed, pulled out her copy of the script and thumbed back to Chapter 50. "Yeah," she mumbled, "thought so. I told him I couldn't live without him, and he said I'd never have to find out." She flipped it closed and sighed, flopping back onto the counterpane and staring at the ceiling. "Dammit, Mac, what the hell are you up to?"

##

_** 4:50pm **_

Having made up her mind to follow the fox's advice, such as it was, she first made a circuit of the house, finding herself more and more encouraged by its condition. She found the small table in the Upper Passage where rested an envelope with her name on it, and spent a minute doing a quick skim of its contents. Most of it was a list of what had been repaired … and it was quite a list. Two-thirds of the windows in the house had been replaced. They'd discovered the stash of extra parquet boards in a third-floor storage room, which is why the repairs had been so exact in the Main Hall. In fact, every room she looked into was in top-notch condition, including the ones she hadn't gotten around to refurbishing before. The contractor had even bought some basic furniture in neutral colors for the Receiving Rooms. It was quite overwhelming.

She paused in the rear suite on the south side, gazing around at the creamy fields of plaster, the perfectly coped crown molding surrounding the high ceiling, the gleaming brass of the antique fixtures, and the new, triple-paned, rhenium-coated, argon-filled glass in the windows. The hardwood floor, polished to a rich glow, neatly reflected the door that led to the Servant's Walk and the Retiring Room beyond. Her footfalls echoed quietly as she padded across to it. In the Servant's Room, the repairs were just as meticulous. The Bath was a model of cleanliness where no hint of a crack marred even one sparkling tile. And the Retiring Room stood ready to welcome any theme she chose to install. They had even set up the windows with some stock white curtains to make the place look nicely symmetrical on the outside.

She made her way back downstairs and over to her former office. Most of the equipment was new, although she didn't know why. Then she noticed that the walls seemed to be a somewhat lighter shade of blue than before, and the trim was different. Maybe the office had caught a bomb. That was certainly a possibility. The chair in front of her workstation was much nicer than the one she'd bought over a year ago. Soft Corinthian leather covered this one, expertly padded and dyed a deep, buttery tan. _I'll bet Karl specified that. He'd badmouthed my old chair more than once._ Thinking of her absent husband drew the corners of her mouth down, and she resolutely turned away from that line of thought. Parking her rear in the chair, and adjusting its height, she pulled the envelope back out and spread its contents across the desk.

The manifest of repairs was just a printout of a spreadsheet. But the last two pages were paw-written.

**_Ms. Wylde –_**

**_On behalf of Spando & Blodgett, I'd like to take _**  
**_this occasion to thank you for your business. _**  
**_It isn't often that we get to work on such a grand _**  
**_old place as this one, and having the opportunity _**  
**_to bring it back to something akin to its former _**  
**_glory was, honestly, a real treat for all of us. _**  
**_I know it's a cliché, but really, they don't make _**  
**_them like this any more._**

**_While it may not have been technically necessary, _**  
**_we decided to replace parts of the plumbing _**  
**_system in some of the second-floor baths. In _**  
**_working through that, my guys came across what _**  
**_they thought was a secret passage. It ran from _**  
**_the linen closet in Suite 7 up to the third floor. My _**  
**_fellows weren't skinny enough to squeeze through _**  
**_it, but it wasn't very long and we could see a _**  
**_flashlight if it was aimed right._**

She paused, thinking, _I remember finding that one! I didn't have any trouble at all getting through it. His team must all be big guys. _The letter went on:

**_During the renovation we found another fourteen _**  
**_secret passages like that. Some of them . . ._**

_Fifteen passages! Holy cow! And I only teased out nine!_ She read through the previous paragraph again and continued.

**_. . . Some of them we could fit through, and some _**  
**_we couldn't. One that we could get into had a _**  
**_locked strongbox, so I had the boys bring it out. _**  
**_Me and my partner thought it over for a while, and _**  
**_finally decided that we ought to open it and see _**  
**_what was inside, in case it was valuable and _**  
**_shouldn't just be left in the house unprotected. _**  
**_We were glad we did. It turned out to be full of _**  
**_$50 bills that had all been folded into origami cranes. _**  
**_We figured there were about 1200 or 1300 of _**  
**_them, and we took the box to your bank in Bristol _**  
**_and put it in a safety deposit drawer. The key to _**  
**_the drawer is locked in the top filing cabinet drawer _**  
**_in your office. I hope you can unlock it, because _**  
**_we couldn't find any sort of key lying around _**  
**_anywhere that looked like it would fit. I guess you _**  
**_can always use a crowbar if you have to._**

That news would have excited her beyond reason back in January. Now, though, given her financially secure situation, it was just interesting. She had about half that much on her already, courtesy of one of Karl's stashes. Nevertheless, she pulled the spare set of office keys out of its hidden slot in one of the desk's legs, unlocked the top drawer and pawed around in it for a bit until the key in question came to light. It went into a pocket.

**_Anyway, I didn't know whether you were aware of _**  
**_them or not, so I included a map showing where _**  
**_they are. Two of the ones that start on the second _**  
**_floor lead up to somewhere on the third floor, but _**  
**_we couldn't find the other ends. Those I marked _**  
**_in red._**

Wendy flipped to the last page and studied the map. Though drawn in pencil, it was an isometric presentation, very nearly to scale and quite simple to read. She traced out the two routes in red. Neither had been among the passages she'd discovered before. _I'll have to check those out, and __**soon**__._

**_There was a lot of stuff on the third floor, and most _**  
**_of it didn't look much like junk, so we left it lay, _**  
**_and mostly just cleaned up some. If you get back _**  
**_and decide there is more that we ought to do, _**  
**_just call my office number or PA._**

**_We've filed all the necessary documents with the _**  
**_courthouse, so you don't have to worry about that. _**  
**_Good luck with your house!_**

**_Best Regards,_**

**_Greg Tremarc_**

Her interest piqued, Wendy stuffed all the papers except the map back into the envelope. That, she took with her to the second floor.

_Okay … let's see. This one starts in the Servant's room here …_ She found the suite in question, again, one of the seven she hadn't worked on, and slid aside the panel in the wainscoting. _Okay, yeah. That's pretty narrow. Time for a flashlight._

When she returned with the necessary light source and had a good look into the opening, she grunted with approval. They had cleaned out all the cobwebs, at least as far as she could see. _This might not be too bad._ Attaching the small light to its companion headband, she wiggled into the space and started climbing.

What with the height of the ceilings and the thickness of the intervening floor, it was about five meters up before she could get out of the wall, and the dust and grime reappeared well before that. The tiny room at the top seemed to be nothing more than a cul-de-sac, with no means of egress apparent. She knocked on the walls and looked around for some kind of door or hatch, but soon gave up and climbed back down. _Humph. It's easy to see why they couldn't find the upper end. There isn't one._

The remaining secret door was on the other side of the house, just before she got to the spiral staircase in the Upper Passage. One of the ornate hardwood panels lining the wall turned out on a hidden hinge, and presented her with a space even more narrow than the last one. It went sideways in the wall for a few meters before turning up. _I guess it's just as well that my overactive metabolism has burned off some weight. _ She edged into the strait and squinched over to the ladder. Looking up showed her only a ceiling high above. _Nothing like a little déjà vu, right?_ She managed to snake her arms around so that she could grasp the rungs above her, and started up.

It wasn't so bad once she got her rhythm, even if it was fairly slow going. The rungs were spaced closely enough so that she didn't have to bend her knee very much with each step, and before too long she found herself a little elbow room. Emphasis on 'little'.

The room was perhaps a hundred and twenty centimeters wide and a bit over four meters long; and, thankfully, she could see a small door at the far end. But what caught her eye was the strongbox sitting in the middle of the floor. She took the one step over to it and knelt.

It seemed in very good condition. About a meter long and half that in height and width, it was constructed of wood with several iron bands and corner gussets for added strength. A smile quirked at her mouth. _Looks like a pirate's chest, it does._ But in this case there was no lock to deal with, nor did any moldering skeleton slump over it in final warning. The hasp was closed over the ring, but only held with a wooden pin. She hesitated a moment. If this was her uncle's doing, would it be safe? Would he have put a trap on it? She examined the box carefully from all sides, and then gave it a light push. It didn't budge. She pushed harder. No dice. _Huh. Is it bolted to the floor?_ Finally she shrugged and flicked the peg out of the hasp. Nothing happened, so she loosed the hasp and lifted the lid … and stopped, becalmed.

The box was divided into two bays, the one on the right roughly twice the size of the other. Both sides were full of coins. Not standard, Federal Reserve-approved-and-minted coins. No, this was gold and silver; gold in the left compartment and silver in the right. Nestled into the deep pile of silver coins was a smaller box, some twenty centimeters square.

Hefting one of the gold coins for weight confirmed for her its composition. She bit it anyway, and left a dent.

_Holy shit._

The coins were obviously very old, considering how worn they were, but even so she could see that the characters stamped on them bore no resemblance to any Western alphabet. Nor were they Chinese. _Burmese? Thai, maybe? Or one of the Indian languages? Where the heck would he have gotten these?_

She concluded, after a brief reflection, that this is why she couldn't move the box. Something like a quarter of a cubic meter of precious metal would weigh … well, it would weigh a lot. A trembling paw closed the lid and she leaned back against the near wall.

_Right. So … gold was trading at around thirty-five dollars a gram, last time I checked. Those coins probably mass around, oh, say, sixty grams per. So a couple thousand dollars per coin, in round numbers._ She blinked and looked back in the box, doing a quick estimate of its contents. _Okay, so there's somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred and fifty coins visible in the top layer. That's about … um … three hundred large in rough terms. Per layer. Just for the gold. The silver sells at … what was it? A buck-ninety per gram? Something like that. I'll say two dollars a gram, and the coins are around … huh … they're different sizes. Eh, I'll say thirty grams each. So that's three hundred coins which is eighteen thousand per layer, just for the silver … Holy smokes. _ Pawing a hole down into the middle of the silver and levering the small box out of the way revealed to her that the coins went clear to the bottom. She measured the height of the box in paw-spans and estimated how many layers there might be, given the thickness of one coin. The number startled her. _That can't be right! I __**know**__ he didn't have __that__ much money!_

Rocking back on her heels, she looked again at the small box, picked it up and set it on top of the coins. It had a standard swing-hook closure, and wasn't locked. It also wasn't nearly as heavy as it would have been if it had held gold. Lifting the lid, she blinked in confusion at the array of small glass jars thus revealed. She picked one up and held it where the light could shine into it, wincing at a sudden brilliant reflection. Her mouth dropping open a little, she stared at it and then numbly unscrewed the lid and removed the object. Rolling back and forth in her palm, gathering the light from her headlamp and offering it back resolved and purified through its complex faceting, the magnificent black fire opal was easily the most beautiful gem she had ever personally beheld. The box was full of them, and the smallest one was about the size of Wendy's thumb. _Oh. My. God. These things can pull down fifteen hundred a carat! And this one's practically a boulder! I know Uncle Julian said he'd made a lot of money mining opals, but …_

A sudden spike of queasiness lit up her gut and she winced in discomfort. It was getting to be that time of day again. Sighing and shaking her head, she closed the box and set it on the floor beside the big one. The opal went back into its jar and the jar into her pocket. Then she climbed back down, shutting the panel carefully behind her. It wouldn't do to have anyone else repeating her little act of retection. _Millions of dollars. Millions upon millions. And I was sitting on it the whole time._

##


	14. Chapter 7 Hell Hath No Fury Part B

_**Chapter Seven – Hell Hath No Fury … – Part B**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

**The more sand that has escaped from the hourglass of our life,  
****the clearer we should see through it.**

**-Jean-Paul Sartre**

##

_** Friday 11 August 2017 – 5:10am – Ash Creek Inn **_

It was déjà vu all over again … but this time she was only dreaming.

_. . . . . . . The heat in the attic was oppressive as she toiled to run all the new wiring, drilling holes in the rock-like wood of the joists so she could attach the wire-way stanchions. And the front doorbell rang, startling her so badly that she missed a step and stuck her foot through the third floor ceiling. She pulled herself out of it, her leg smarting, but then the doorbell rang, startling her so badly that she missed a step and stuck her foot through the third floor ceiling. She pulled herself out of it and lay there, panting, but the doorbell rang . . . . . . ._

The doorbell rang again.

She opened her eyes. It was still pretty dark, though she could see the objects in her room well enough. Sitting up, she stretched briefly, frowning in irritation when the bell went off again. Squinting at the clock on the side table, she blew a raspberry. "Who the hell shows up at somebody's door before dawn?" Then her knowledge of recent events came rushing back in and she got an unpleasant frisson of foreboding.

Maybe this was about Karl? _Maybe it's the ISB!_

But if it were, would they ring the bell? Wouldn't they be going all ninja on her or something? She threw on a robe and sprinted down to the foyer, trying to force away her nascent headache through sheer willpower.

Flipping on the porch light and taking a quick peek through the viewing panel beside the door didn't give her any real information. The couple that stood there were complete strangers. She said, "Is there something I can do for you?"

The smaller and nearer of the pair startled slightly at her voice, located the small opening, and peered in at Wendy. "Good morning. My name is Faye Porr and I have something for you."

"Faye Porr?" _Why does that name ring a bell?_ "Have we met?"

"No we have not. But I came out here once before with my father to place a ward for your protection."

Wendy stood sharply. Porr! That's where she'd heard the name! Karl had told her not too long ago about Nicu Porr and his role in the late unpleasantness with Arthur and his … whatever it was. Wendy still wasn't convinced it was a demon, but she didn't have any better ideas. Leaning back down to the panel, she asked, "What's your father's name?"

"Nicu."

_She could have dug that up online._ "… All right. Tell me this, then. Nicu made something for me, a item that he said was for my …"

"It was an amulet to wear around your neck on a chain. He invested a star sapphire with a ward and a trap so that the evil thing attacking your dreams would stay away."

Okay, that clinched it. "Very well." She glanced over at Faye's companion. "Who's that? He doesn't look like a relative."

The taller fur answered, "My name is Brightlimb Stephens. I'm her mate. I'm the one who called Alan Grey when Faye had that vision about the sect that wanted to invade your property and …"

"Oh! That was _you?_"

They both nodded hard enough to make their ears flop.

Wendy quickly unlocked the door and ushered them in. "All right. That'll do for bona fides. What is it you need to tell me?"

For a response, Faye pulled out a sheet of paper and passed it to the vixen. "I received this in a vision. It is for you."

"… Uh … What is it?"

"I do not know."

Wendy stared at the Dalmatian femme, nonplussed. "You don't know?"

"No. I only know that you need it. Also, the name 'Lee'. Also you need to know all this today. Early."

Wendy fought off another chill. All this precognition stuff gave her the pip. "I need it today, huh? Why?"

"I was not told."

"… Well that isn't very helpful, is it?"

Brightlimb broke in and asked, "Do you know what those numbers mean? I couldn't figure it out. I thought it might be a cipher of some sort, but if it is it isn't one I'm familiar with."

Wendy studied the paper for a few moments and then looked up at the couple. "Would you like some coffee? I think I'm gonna need it."

The collie shook his head and Faye said, "I'd prefer herbal tea if you have any."

"That I do. Come on back." And she led them through the big house and to the kitchen. Pointing as she walked in, Wendy said, "Tea's in that cabinet there." She took a seat at the table, spread the paper out and ran her finger down the list of numbers. "Are these … arrows at the top?"

"Yes," replied Faye, "but I do not know what they are for." She stood in the huge kitchen and looked around dazedly. "How do you ever find anything in this place?"

"Heh. You get used to it. The tea kettle's in that appliance garage to the right of the stove there. And the coffee maker is hanging from the underside of the cabinet to the left, over there. The coffee and the filters are right above it. There are some Kenyan blend beans in the smaller canister that you can grind, if you don't mind."

"Thanks." Faye got the kettle and busied herself with preparations. Brightlimb scooted a chair over next to Wendy and looked at the paper with her. "Did you notice that two of the rows are the same?"

"Huh. So they are. Wonder what that's about. It's not the start and finish, because that isn't … isn't the … end." She frowned in recognition. "These are map coordinates."

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Hell, I'm not _**sure**_ of anything. But that's what they look like. And look at the arrows. Pointing north, and pointing west, if you think like a cartographer. Hang on." She sprinted back upstairs, downed a pawful of painkillers, grabbed her PA, and zipped back to the kitchen. "Let me pull up the mapping function."

Brightlimb studied her PA. "That's not a model I'm familiar with. Where'd you get it?"

"My huum … um … a friend of mine put it together for me."

"Wow. I could use a friend like that."

Wendy laid the unit on the table and activated the virtual screen. Shortly a holographic image of North America hung in the air between them. "All right. Let's see. 44-10-12 North and 73-08-53 West. That's … oh. Oh, wow." She glanced up at Brightlimb, who was staring at the hologram, mesmerized. "Let me zoom in here … damn. I was right."

"Is that … here?"

"Yep. Nowhere but." She tapped in the next set of coordinates. "Huh. Chicago. That's where …" She ran in close on the exact spot and felt her hackles rise. "That's the hotel …" her voice fell to a whisper, "… where we stayed. Son of a bitch." Quickly entering the next coordinates, she discovered, much to her complete lack of surprise, that it was the hotel they'd chosen while visiting San Francisco. She looked up and met Faye's gaze. "You're the real deal, aren't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You got this in a vision?"

"I did."

"From whom?"

"From the goddess, I would suppose. I am not certain, though."

"Goddess. You guys are Wiccan?"

"Eh … not exactly? Sort of? Pagan, yes."

"Ah-huh. Well. Divine intervention on my behalf. That's a first."

_Perhaps_, thought Faye, _and then perhaps not._

Wendy quickly ran through the rest of the locations, following the path that she and Karl took, all the way back to the Inn. "So what's this last point? It's right on the Ohio-West Virginia border. I've never been any closer to there than Pittsburgh, and that's gotta be better than a hundred klicks." She fiddled with the resolution until the view was centered over what looked like part of a roof. "There's a house there, I guess." Glancing at Faye, she asked, "Any ideas?"

Faye only shook her head.

"Maybe," observed Brightlimb, "you _will_ be there. Or you are supposed to be."

Wendy sat back and thought this over for a bit, trying to ignore the growing pain behind her eyes. At least she hadn't awakened with it this time. If she had the opportunity to hit it with painkillers before it got going, it wasn't usually as intense. "What was that name you said, Faye? Lee?"

"Yes, Lee. Is it significant?"

"It might be. Did you get a last name? Or _is_ that a last name?"

"No, and I do not know."

"Well, I only know one Lee, so that's likely him."

"Who is he?" Brightlimb wanted to know.

"Government fella. Works for the DoD on some big, top-secret military project."

"Well. That's … surprising. How do you know him?"

"You remember all that hoopla with the Knights of the Pure Strain last year?"

"Yes! That was just awful how the Attorney General got murdered."

"Uh … yeah. It was. I was there."

The collie's breath caught suddenly, forcing him to swallow with some difficulty. "You were … where?"

"At Michael Truefoot's house, when that Grosvenor bastard attacked. So was Lee. So were a lot of furs who were involved with breaking the Knights' collective back and putting them out of business, at least officially."

Brightlimb's muzzle dropped open. "The Knights targeted you? But what for? You aren't a hybrid, are you?"

"No, I'm not. But at the time I was dating that hunting guide who discovered their hideout in the woods and rescued Martin O'Musca before they had a chance to eat him."

"Ugh." He looked queasy. "Were they really going to do that? I mean, I heard something like that on the news, but I thought it _had_ to be hype."

"No. No hype. If Conner hadn't shown up when he did, Martin would've been killed and eaten. That wasn't the first time they'd ever practiced cannibalism."

"But … If he … How did they …" He took a deep breath. "Wow. That's a lot to assimilate."

Faye offered, "You are right, Bri. They were very bad furs."

"You could say that." Turning back to Wendy, he asked, "So how did Lee figure into this?"

"I got the whole story from his wife. See, they were friends with an old friend of mine, Sabrina, who had come here to visit me and help me get the place cleaned up last summer. She told 'em about the Inn and they – that is, Lee – called and made reservations. On their way to stay here they went through Montpelier, and while they were there, four of the Knights jumped them."

"Oh my gosh! Are they okay?"

"Oh, no worries. Lee and his wife are some kind of high-level martial arts experts. They put those four in the hospital."

"Oh. My word."

"Yeah, so, anyway, that was the first time. Then they got attacked again when they went on a picnic with … um, with some friends. They won that time, too. So when Michael went after the Knights, Lee and De – uh, his wife were the state's prime witnesses."

"I see. That's … some story."

"You're telling me. It hardly seems real, and I lived it." _Am living it still._

"So, can you contact this Lee?"

"Well, yeah. Kahh … that is, my … Um. Yeah. I can. I've got his personal line on my PA."

Faye brought over a coffee pot and three mugs, then went back to the stove and retrieved the tea kettle. She poured Wendy's mug full of the aromatic, black liquid, and then set up her mug and Brightlimb's to steep their tea. She sat and folded her paws in front of her on the table. "You seem very hesitant to use certain names. Is that out of respect for their privacy?"

"Um … Yeah, sure, we'll go with that."

Faye just smiled a little. Then she cleared her throat and said, "You need to call him."

"What, now? It isn't even six yet."

"If he is a military fur, as you say, he should be awake now."

"Oh, he's not military, exactly. He just works on a big military project."

"You should call him. Now."

Wendy sighed. "Why? Is the world going to come crashing down if I don't?"

Her expression the very essence of earnest, Faye said, "Yours will."

Not knowing exactly how to respond to that, the vixen reached over and flipped her PA from 'map' to 'communication'. "All right. If you insist. But if I wake him up, I'm blaming it on you."

"I think I can live with that."

#

Lee had just finished sprinkling cinnamon-sugar on four lightly-toasted and buttered English muffins, and was sliding them under the broiler when Debbye padded into their kitchen carrying his PA. He quirked a brow at her. "Somebody call me?"

"Yep. And you'll never guess who."

He stood and came over to the table. "Do you _want_ me to guess?"

"Not really. She seems like she's in rather a hurry."

"She?"

"Wendy Wylde."

"… Huh." He held his paw out and Debbye passed him the PA. "Hello?"

"Hi, Lee, I hope I didn't wake you guys up."

"No, not at all. We're early risers even under normal circumstances, and Michelle seems to be cut from the same cloth. She had us up at three-thirty and just went back down."

"Michelle?"

"Our new daughter. I guess you didn't get the memo."

"No, I didn't! Congratulations! When did she show up?"

"July thirty-first, just in time for supper."

"Well that's just great! I hope I didn't wake her with my call."

"Not at all. Debbye and I were just about to have breakfast. But it just got underway, so I've got some time."

"Okay, good. Listen, I've got what you might think is a really weird request."

"I've heard a lot of that sort of thing. Fire away."

"Well … do you have time for me to give you some background?"

"I can make time if you think it's important."

"I'll be as brief as I can. I had a visit this morning from a couple that's … well, they've been sort of involved in my life from time to time, by way of keeping me out of trouble."

"Uh-huh. And?"

"One of them is … you're gonna think this sounds nuts, but she's got some sort of … precognition … thing."

"Precognition?" He chuckled quietly. "How much has she taken you for?"

"She doesn't _charge_ anything! It's just something she does."

"What does she want instead?"

"Nothing! Honest! She just gets these visions, and feels like it's her duty to do something about them if she can."

"… Riiiight."

"Look, I know it sounds crazy, but she's given me enough hard data that I believe her."

"Well, that's your business I suppose. What is the 'weird request' you have?"

"I need for you to check out a map coordinate for me."

"… Beg pardon?"

"They showed up with a list of map coordinates, although they didn't know that's what they were."

"So what was significant about a list of locations?"

"It was a list of all the places I'd stayed since I had to leave here last February. And I mean it was accurate right down to the street address."

Lee was silent for a few moments. "Maybe they were able to follow you through credit card charges?"

"No. In the first place, we didn't use any cards. We paid cash for everything. In the second place, some of the spots we stayed were private residences. One of them is about as far off the grid as it's possible to get. The list tracked our movements _exactly_ over the last six months. Believe me, Lee, there is absolutely no way they could have found this information any other way."

"Ms. Wylde, there's always some way for a shyster to ferret out that kind of data.

"Lee, I have several reasons to believe that she isn't a shyster." She heard Faye give an aggrieved sigh behind her. "And it's 'Wendy', not 'Ms. Wylde'.

A smile threatened to invade his face. "Right. I forgot." He winked at Debbye. "So, what's this map coordinate you're so interested in?"

"North 39º 35' 59" and West 81º 00' 30". It's on the Ohio-West Virginia border."

Lee's face changed so thoroughly that Debbye took a step toward him and held out a paw. "Are you all right, Dear?"

Suddenly hoarse, Lee said, "Please repeat those coordinates."

She did, and asked, "Does that mean anything to you?"

"Wait … just a moment, please." He put the PA down and gave his wife a level look. "Would you please log on to the base computer?"

"What's wrong?"

"I … don't know …yet. Maybe nothing. But I need to check on this."

Debbye hurried out of the room, and Lee put the PA back to his ear. "Who are these people?"

"My visitors?"

"Yes."

"Faye Porr and Brightlimb Stephens. They're … a couple from down Middlebury way."

"And how did they happen to gain access to this information?"

"I told you. Faye has visions. She's given me solid information before, and she does it out of the goodness of her heart."

Lee heard another voice in the background that said, "It is not just that, Wendy. I normally would not tell you about my visions. It is not my place to do that, to stick myself in your business. And I did not – would not? – would not have done except that … I knew this time … I was supposed to."

"Really?" responded the vixen, "How so?"

Lee interrupted, "Wendy, would you please put her on the phone?"

Wendy said, "Can I just put it on speaker?"

"That would be fine."

When she had done so, Lee said, "Miss Porr … do you go by Miss or Missus?"

"I go by Faye unless that bothers you."

"Faye, then. Would you mind telling me where you got the information you gave Wendy?"

"I received it in a dream."

"And do you have these dreams often?"

"Yes. Frequently."

"And when did you get this one?"

"On the last day of July."

"… You aren't just saying that because I mentioned that as my daughter's birthday are you?"

"What? What birthday?"

"Just a minute ago, when I told Wendy about Michelle."

"I heard none of that. You asked when I had my vision and I told you. I cannot change the past."

Lee pursed his lips and said, "Fine. Almost two weeks ago. Why wait until now to give it to her?"

"She was not here until yesterday, and I did not find that out until last night. I brought it as soon as I could."

"She wasn't there? Where was she?"

Wendy answered, "I told you, Lee, I've been away from the Inn since February. I spent the four days before yesterday driving in."

"Wait, wait … I must have missed that part. You mean you haven't been living at the Inn for the last six months? Didn't you tell us the will stipulated that you _had_ to live there?"

"It wasn't as if I had a choice. After the attack … Oh, wait. I guess _you_ didn't get _that_ memo."

**_"Attack? ! __What attack?"_**

"Ah … hum … to compress the events of the day rather a lot, Ka – that is, my repairfur was out here working on the freezer on Groundhog Day and some of his …" She glanced over at her guests, who were listening intently. "um … former acquaintances showed up. There was a big fight. The place got trashed pretty thoroughly."

Debbye said, "That's horrible!" Lee asked, "Were you hurt? Or was he?"

"Ah. Not permanently."

"And you're back there now? At the Inn?"

"Yes."

"Where's …" Lee stopped himself and put two and seventeen together. "… ah, where's your repairfur at present?"

"… I don't really know."

Noting the strong undercurrent of distress in her voice, Lee digested the information a few moments. He decided it would be prudent to leave that line of conversation for the time being. "Faye, how did you know that Wendy was back?"

"The goddess told me."

The tall cat sighed in exasperation. "Goddess. Right."

"Believe what you will, Mr. Lee. You are free to make your own peace with the Deity. I am happy with mine."

"Very well." He spotted Debbye giving him the thumbs-up. "Excuse me while I move to our base computer." When he was seated in front of his main console, he said, "I'll just pull up the map function here."

"That's what I did earlier," said Wendy.

Half a minute passed while Lee adjusted the map to the Ohio border, entered the coordinates, and zoomed in to treetop level. Then he sat back in his chair, his heart hammering. The strain plain in his voice, he said, "Faye, I must ask you again: _how_ did you _get_ that last coordinate?"

"The same way I got the rest of them. In a dream. On the last night of July."

"And you have that date so precisely because …?"

Brightlimb said, "I noted the date on the piece of paper that she wrote on when she woke up out of the vision."

Lee asked, "What made you do that?"

"That's just a habit of mine. I'm a software engineer. I date everything."

Wendy broke in, "Lee, I can _tell_ you know something about that coordinate! What is it?"

He felt Debbye's paw gripping his shoulder. "Lee, is that the house I think it is?"

Wendy was getting frustrated. "What? What's so ultimately _special_ about this one place?"

"Before we go over that," he answered, "will you tell me why it was important that you contact _me_ specifically with this question? Or was I just a random pull?"

Faye said, "I got the name 'Lee' at the same time as the list. I knew Wendy needed them both, and she needed them today. Early."

"And I only knew one fur named Lee, so I called you. Now, what's the deal with this spot?"

"Just this," interjected Debbye. "That house was where my kidnappers held me many years ago, until Lee came and rescued me."

"Kidnappers! Hell on a rock! I didn't know you'd been kidnapped! When was that?"

Lee said, "A long, long time ago, before we were married. Anyway, after that whole mess was cleared up, I went back to the place. I liked the property as soon as I saw it clearly, and the location is about as remote as you can get and still be in Ohio. So a friend of mine went in with me and we bought it. We fixed it up and turned it into our own little retreat."

Debbye said, "We've spent quite a few pleasant vacations there. There's nobody else around for nearly a kilometer."

"My friend changed jobs and had to move to Portugal a few years ago, so I bought him out. It's just ours now."

"Wow." Wendy thought that over for a moment. "And that's where this coordinate puts us?"

"Dead center. That's why I want to know where Faye got the information. Those coordinates sounded familiar because I'd seen them on the plat, but I had to be sure. See, I pulled a few strings and fixed it so the place doesn't show up on any state or county official documents. It's very secret. Yet you found it."

"I _found_ nothing, Mister Lee. I was _given_ this list."

"… As you say. But why?"

"It is important for Wendy. She is in danger." Faye sat up straight then, her eyes wide. "She is … in danger." Turning to Brightlimb, she grabbed his sleeve and said, "It just came! This is why … Wendy, you must leave!"

"Leave? Leave here?"

"Yes! Today!"

Lee said, "Whoa! Slow down there."

"Damn straight!" put in Wendy. "I just freakin' got here!"

"And you must now just freakin' leave!" Faye was adamant. "_That_ is why you needed to call Lee. He can take you."

"Take me? Where? To that house?"

"It will be safe for you while you heal."

"… Heal? What do you mean?"

Faye looked confused. "I … I don't know. You need to … heal. From something." She reached over and laid a tentative paw against Wendy's cheek. "You are healing. You will heal. It will be better. But not until you are safe. Here, you are not safe."

Lee asked, "Wendy, do you have any idea what she's talking about?"

"… Ummm …"

"'_Um'_? I don't think I like _'Um'_. Spill."

"Well … in Chicago … I was, uh, you could say I was attacked. But really, I think they were after Karl instead." She flinched and put a guilty paw over her muzzle, glancing up at her guests. "Damn."

"After Karl? Who? Was it the Knights? I thought they …"

"No, no! It wasn't the Knights. Karl thinks they were with some moonbat bunch I never heard of called the Trenchant Fur Network."

"The TFN? Holy crap! We have to get you out of there!"

Wendy, more than somewhat taken aback by Lee's sudden vehemence, said, "You really think so?"

"Wendy, I've heard stories of what these maniacs are capable of. You _don't_ want to be there if they are following you. Didn't you say you'd been on the road for four days?"

"Yeah. So?"

"So if they are as tenacious as I think they are, they'll comb the area around Chicago until they pick up your trail. They could be on top of you any day."

"But … but how will Karl find me?"

"He can find _me_ if he needs to, and I'll hook you up."

"Damn, Lee, I don't know …"

"Well I do. You sit tight. I'll have somebody out your way pronto. Do you have a gun?"

"Uh … no?"

"I'm surprised. I figured Karl would do better than that."

"Well, it isn't _his_ fault. He had some available. I just don't like the things." She snapped her fingers. "You know, on second think, I do believe he mentioned that he had something squirreled away in the SUV. I'll go look."

"You do that. And then find a good hidey-hole and wait till my guys get there."

"How will I know they're your guys and not the TFN?"

"You'll know."

##


	15. Chapter 7 Hell Hath No Fury  Part C

_**Chapter Seven – Hell Hath No Fury … – Part C**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Friday 11 August 2017 – 3:45pm **_

_He was right,_ she mused. _It really isn't too hard to tell these guys work with Lee._

The plane … airship? … _thing_ that landed at the bottom of the Meadow didn't look anything like any flying vehicle Wendy had ever seen. For one thing it didn't make any noise to speak of, just dropping straight down out of the afternoon overcast and slowing abruptly before touchdown. A squad of four soldiers with DARPA emblazoned on their helmets trotted up to the door, disappearing below the edge of the front porch and out of her range of vision, given her vantage point in one of the front suites. 'Hidey-holes' were good for some things, she had reasoned, but if someone was coming for her she wanted to be able to see him.

At her insistence, Faye and Brightlimb had left. She didn't want anyone else dying on her account. So she waited, clutching the carbine in both paws, until the cavalry arrived. She hurried down to the foyer to meet Sergeant Denis Marks.

#

"Ma'am, are you sure this is all you brought with you?"

Surveying the small pile of her belongings, she nodded. "And it's 'Wendy', not 'Ma'am'. Sir."

He tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a grin at that. "Yes, Ma'am." Giving brief directions to his troops, the Sergeant quickly had all of Wendy's things whisked out and stowed securely away in their … craft. Though she pestered him with questions, he steadfastly maintained that he wasn't at liberty to discuss the working points of their transportation, referring to it only as a 'beta model'.

From the vixen's perspective it was certainly 'beta' where accommodations were concerned. The interior was cramped, dark, and Spartan, and her seat felt more like an interrogation device than anything remotely ergonomic. She was, thankfully, able to stand inside the craft, and did so. When two of the soldiers climbed back out and headed up to the Inn, she observed to the Sergeant, "I thought we already got everything."

"We did, Ma'am."

"Then where are they going? And what's that big box they're carrying?"

"Clean-up detail, Ma'am."

"Clean-up? The place was squeaky-clean already! I mean, good grief, I only had time for one _bath_ since I got here yesterday."

"Not that kind of clean, Ma'am. We were told to do a full erasure."

"… Sorry?"

"Gotta make it like you weren't here at all."

"… How do you do that?"

#

The two soldiers had split up, one taking the upstairs and the other the ground floor. With HEPA-based vacuums, ultraviolet detectors, and electronic sniffers, they ferreted out (and indeed, one of them happened to _be_ a ferret) and eliminated all traces of fur and dander. Once that was complete, they gave the whole house a misting with a compound that neutralized body odors. Wendy had already arranged the kitchen back to its 'mothballed' state. When a final run-through revealed nothing either of them could smell, they packed up and carried their gear back to the airship.

Wendy gave them a grateful smile. "So am I a ghost now?"

"Not even a ghost of a ghost, Ma'am."

"Thanks …" She looked at his nametag. "Corporal Davies."

"Just doing our duty, Ma'am." His teammate had finished locking down the box … and then removed an even bigger one, which they dragged to the door.

The vixen was confused. "What now?"

Sergeant Marks answered, "Another favor for Mr. Evans."

"… Yes?"

"Corporal Davies and Private Alopex are going to find themselves a good hiding place on that hill opposite the house and watch for anyone who might come looking."

"Oh. But … but what for?"

"If the TFN is after you, as Mr. Evans suspects, we can get a good line on 'em and they won't ever know anything about it."

"Oh! Well. That's a good idea."

"We thought so." His face hardened. "Of all the scum we might run across, the TFN are what you might call the bottom-feeders, right down there with MS13. They tend to be a merciless lot, and they don't usually leave witnesses. If we can track them, maybe identify them, we just might be able to reel in a _big_ fish."

"Cool." She caught the attention of the pair disappearing out the door. "But how are you going to stay out of sight and still find out what you want to know?"

Grinning, the Corporal answered, "By being the sneakiest damn son of a bitch on the planet, Ma'am."

She got a good, long laugh out of that.

##

_** Saturday 12 August 2017 – 1:33pm **_

Waves of heat blurred the outlines of objects close to the road running in front of the Inn as several long, dark sedans approached slowly from both directions. Two of them stopped at the edges of the Meadow, one at either side, and spat out a couple of furs with automatic rifles. The rest sloped into the drive and up to the house.

A tall, well-proportioned jackal emerged from the lead car and stood looking at the house. A somewhat shorter jackal walked up beside him. "Big place."

"Mmhm."

"Burn it?"

"Don't be stupid. Madame wants her alive. If she's not there, maybe she'll come back."

A dozen armed furs lined up behind them, checked weapons, and then they filed into the Inn.

#

Corporal Davies, sweating in his ghillie suit, trained his binoculars on the front of the mansion. "… eleven, twelve … thirteen … fourteen just entered the house."

"Can you see any movement in the cars?"

"None. It doesn't look like they left anyone out. Same for the sentinels." He refocused his view and said, "I've got three of the license plates. Write these down …"

#

"How can she _not_ be here?"

"You got me. But she ain't. Hasn't been here in a long time, Belitzky says. And if _his_ nose can't pick it up, it ain't there to pick up."

The tall jackal stared off down the long hall for a minute, then said, "Get Luc. Tell him to bring his toys."

Fifteen minutes later, with five wireless motion detectors placed in unobtrusive locations, the heavily-armed group got back in their cars and drove off toward the south.

#

"Copy that, Lieutenant. We'll sit tight and wait for evac."

Private Alopex asked, "They get a spy plane in the AO?"

"Affirmative. They're dialing in a satellite, too."

"Hot shit! Those bastards are as good as skewered."

"I hope so, Tom. That I do."

##

**We are much harder on people who betray us in small ways  
****than on people who betray others in great ones.**

_**-Francois de La Rochefoucauld**_

##

_** Monday 14 August 2017 – 5:50pm – Needham, Massachusetts **_

Darrel pulled up short when he got to his kitchen, staring at the figure seated at his table.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Mesomel."

"Ah … Mr. Rajid. What, uh …"

"We'd like to have a word with you."

"Uh … we?"

Wayne, Capra, and Trina stepped in behind the jackal. Trina had a pistol in one paw.

Darrel's head whipped back and forth between the three agents and their boss until, baring his teeth, he sprang at Rajid with an inarticulate cry. But the mongoose was ready for him, planting a foot in his solar plexus. He folded over Rajid's leg, and the older fur brought a hammer blow down on the back of his head. Darrel hit the floor like a sack of sand and lay there, trying to figure out how to breathe again.

"Well, Raj," observed Capra, "I guess dat narrows it down, huh?"

"That it does, my friend. Would you and Wayne help 'Mr. Mesomel' to a chair, please?"

"Wit pleasure, Raj."

They shortly had the cursing jackal secured. Rajid pulled a chair over to face him and sat. "So. One wonders what your real name is."

"You'll get nothing out of me, you leprous dog!"

"Ah. Well, there may be two schools of thought on that subject. Trina?"

The hedgehog pulled a small attaché case up onto the table and opened it, revealing several vials of fluid, an assortment of syringe components, and a compact black box with half a dozen tiny wire leads coming from it. Darrel's eyes bugged as she assembled a syringe and drew two cc's of a light amber liquid into it.

"You can't give me truth serum! That's against Bureau rules!"

Rajid's smile showed lots of teeth and no humor. "My, my. Aren't we just the little policy expert." He pulled the black box out of the attaché and set it on the table, laying the wires out. "It is _also_ against Bureau policy, if I recall correctly, to sell out your teammates and betray them to their deaths." His head swiveled around to face the jackal, eyes black and snapping. "Or did I miss that part in my reading?"

Darrel sort of crumpled in on himself. "What … what are you gonna do?"

None of the other agents felt that question was worth an answer. Trina pressed the excess air out of the syringe and approached the jackal. "Wayne, would you mind holding his head back? I wouldn't want to hit anything non-vital."

"Gladly." He jerked Darrel's head back until his muzzle pointed at the ceiling. Any struggles he offered were quickly countered, and Trina administered the dose.

"Now," said Rajid, "we can wait a few minutes." Cocking his head at his ersatz employee, he asked, "Is there anything you would like to get off your chest before you lose control of your faculties?"

"Damn, that burns!" He coughed and spat. "What is that? What the hell'd you do?"

"That, Mr. Mesomel, is one of Beorn Gulo's creations. He included it with other highly useful information contained on that storage cube. It is most fortunate that it didn't get damaged in the … incident at the warehouse, don't you think?"

Sensation was beginning to melt out of Darrel's limbs. His vision blurred and stayed that way. "Whaaaaahsssit … do?"

"It makes you amenable to reasoned conversation. We have tested it already. It is quite effective, assuming that one has the time to wait for it to take effect." Rajid leaned in toward the jackal. "I think we have plenty of time. Don't you?"

His eyes rolling around in different directions, Darrel chose not to answer.

"It will take about twenty minutes for the effects to reach steady state. In the interim … you may, as the professionals in the field of dentistry are fond of saying, feel a bit of discomfort."

And truly, in less than a minute a steadily growing heat seemed to build in Darrel's neck, flowing up into his head, racing down to his fingertips and exploding in sparks of exquisite agony. Had his vocal apparatus not been paralyzed, he would have spent the time screaming. The others watched his silent, agonized writhing with dispassionate calm.

"There is one other item of note that you may find interesting, Mr. Mesomel," said Rajid in a relaxed, almost friendly tone. "According to Mr. Gulo, the flaccid condition of your limbs will persist for many days unless an antidote is administered. It could, in fact, become permanent in some species." He leaned forward, and his voice hardened. "Your species is among those so affected. Whether or not you receive the antidote will rest upon your answers to our questions.

Rajid's conversation was just barely penetrating Darrel's consciousness, so overwhelmed he was with the pain. But he did understand that his future hung on the thinnest of threads.

The mongoose rose and went to the sink where he poured himself a glass of water. Capra took his place on the seat. "Ya know, Darrel – if dat's ya name – we had da list o' possible moles peeled down t' jist you an' Franklin's assistant, Marge. She still ain't a hunnert percent cleared now, but I'm layin' odds dat dere ain't nofur else backin' youse up. How 'bout it? Want a piece o' dat?"

The fiery torment had peaked, had begun to recede, and Darrel's mind was taking on a clarity that it normally lacked. Initially apprehensive, he soon began to revel in the new sensation. He poked about in the dingy pigeon holes, dusting them off and lining up their contents neatly. This was marvelous! All his memories were here! He just hadn't been able to use them before. But now he had the chance! Now he could show everyone what he knew! About the time the paralysis affecting his vocal chords wore off, he gained an ardent desire to share his innermost thoughts. "Mr. Capra! Mr. Capra, sir! You are right! I am the only operative that Madame trusted to place here!"

Rajid, who had been leaning against the counter, stood abruptly and walked over. "Madame? Madame who?"

"Madame Schmedtte, sir! She chose me for this assignment! I was special because so many of my family had died in the bombardment and I had this big grudge and …"

Rajid and Capra looked at each other. Capra mouthed _"TFN"_ and Rajid nodded. This would be a big opportunity if they could capitalize on it.

"…and she said I could be trained as a mole and that I could gather intelligence and pass it on and the ISB would never find out how it was being done because there was no electronic transmission and they were all so stuck on their high-tech toys that something as simple as passing a note would fly right under their radar and then she could plan her movements around …"

"Darrel! Stop a moment."

"Yes, sir! What else, sir?"

Trina grinned mirthlessly. "Damn. Gulo was right. That stuff does make you chatty."

"That's right, Ms. Erinaceous!" agreed Darrel. "What else do you want to know? I can tell you about the secret compartment behind my medicine cabinet! That's where I always leave the notes! And there's a switch that turns on a special signal! And then someone comes and collects it from the apartment next door! It always works that way and they always come really fast! I've left scores of notes there! I told them about you locating Gulo and everything that he did and that snow sled he built and how he blew up the team that tracked him to Vermont and how Mr. Capra warned him with flares and how he contacted you and that he got married and that his wife was a cripple of some sort and …"

"Stop!"

"Yes, sir! What else, sir?"

"Hold that thought a moment, please."

"Yes, sir!"

Rajid looked over at Wayne. "Are you getting all this?"

"Every word." He indicated the remote microphone. "Two copies."

"Very good." Turning back to Darrel, he said, "Your medicine cabinet."

"Yes, sir!"

"Tell me how you access the secret compartment. And we need all the details."

Darrel did so, eagerly and completely. Capra trotted back to the bathroom and went through the drill, finding everything exactly as the jackal had said.

They continued interrogating the erstwhile mole for close to two hours, learning enough about the holes in their security web to rob them all of a night's sleep. Finally, Rajid said, "Wayne, get him packed up. We are taking him back to headquarters. But first I want to have a few remote teams sweep the neighborhood to make sure we are not being watched. I do not think his managers would reside in the same complex, but they are probably nearby."

"On it," replied the meerkat.

"Trina, you have a sample of Mr. Mesomel's writing, I believe."

"Right here."

"Very good. Please copy this text onto a sticky note and leave it in his secret spot." And he dictated a brief message.

Trina was grinning broadly when he finished. "Oh, that's beautiful. That oughta give the ol' hornets nest a poke."

"I trust so. We will wait to activate the signal until the area is clear and the rest of us are gone."

"Sounds like a plan." And she got busy writing.

##


	16. Chapter 7 Hell Hath No Fury Part D

_**Chapter Seven – Hell Hath No Fury … – Part D**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

**The mind is not a vessel to be filled,  
****but a fire to be kindled**

**-_Plutarch_**

##

_** Tuesday 15 August 2017 – 8:45am – near Sistersville, West Virginia**_

"How's that? Any better?"

Wendy's breathing, already somewhat labored, stuttered and caught as Debbye massaged her neck. "N-n-no. No more."

Frustrated, the squirrel stood from where she'd been leaning beside the bed. "I have never seen such headaches in my _life_, Wendy! And you've been putting up with this for _weeks?_ How?"

Her voice papery thin, she answered, "Don't … have much … choice." She tried her best not to move. If she concentrated hard enough on the pain and didn't give it a chance to spike, she could sometimes dull it enough to relax. Certainly it didn't work every time, but often enough to make the effort worth while, though she'd had no success yet today.

Debbye's heart went out to her friend. A naturally sympathetic furson, the vixen's agony was almost physical for her as well.

Wendy waved a paw at her and said, "Just … turn out … light … an' go."

"Are you sure?"

"… yeah … need dark …"

Debbye carried out her friend's wish, closing the door as softly as she could before padding out to the great room.

The Evans' 'secret hideaway' house had been built sometime shortly after the Second World War by the owner of a hardware/building supply store. When they first started doing renovations on the old place, Lee had been fascinated, bemused, and sometimes maddened by the eclectic nature of the raw materials used. It was as if the builder took the tag ends of every other project he'd been a part of and cobbled them together into the shape of a house. It wasn't that he'd done a bad job. Quite the contrary; the place was extremely well-built. But the brick on the rear didn't match that on the front and sides; there were three breaker boxes, of different sizes, made by different manufacturers; the plumbing was a combination of black iron, copper, and galvanized, in several sizes; the roofing was a patchwork of at least five shingle types; none of the door hardware matched – for that matter none of the _doors_ matched; and the flooring ran the gamut from linoleum to hardwood to carpet to slate to concrete, with no particular planning evident. The wiring was all original equipment and desperately outdated, and the walk-out basement had obviously flooded a few times. It was quite the collection of projects.

She crossed the room, nodding to two of the guards on her way to the room she'd chosen as her nursery. Lee hadn't really been in favor of this arrangement, but Debbye could be quite adamant once she'd made up her mind, and she insisted that Wendy needed more and better looking after than the DoD could provide, especially on such short notice. So, meeting her halfway, Lee had finagled a couple of squads of Marines to watch over the two femmes. Debbye felt sure that they would encounter nothing more dangerous than mosquitoes, but she acquiesced to his wishes nonetheless.

Michelle still slept, and it wouldn't be time to feed her again for another hour or so. It was a short walk out to the gazebo Lee had erected in the side yard. She pulled out her PA and called her husband. When his smiling face appeared on her screen, she asked, "I'm not intruding on a meeting am I?"

"Not a bit of it! Glad for an excuse to stop and have some coffee."

"Oh, an excuse am I? How romantic."

"Well, you know me. Thoughtfulness on two feet."

She giggled.

He asked, "Is there something specific you need?"

"I need to hear your voice."

"Voice, voice, voice, voice."

"Silly cat."

"Ah, you _do_ know me."

"Yes, about that. It's been two weeks, and I didn't need an episiotomy, and I think a little up-close-and-personal quality time is going to be necessary … _soon_."

"Music to my ears. So how long are you planning to stay out there?"

"Only as long as I have to be. But Lee, you have no idea how horrible it is for her. I've never seen another fur suffer as badly as she does from these headaches. And the nausea is almost as bad, and then sometimes she has to contend with joint pain and these weird pains in her long bones."

"Yeah, that's what you said. You also said that she'd been to some of the best specialists in the country."

"Yes, poor thing. They did her no good at all."

"But you can do better than they?"

She distinctly heard the smirk in his voice. "I didn't say _that_. I just think she doesn't need to be alone right now. She misses Karl so much it almost makes _me_ cry. Speaking of which, have you still not been able to get a lead on where he might be?"

"Not the tiniest peep. I've been through the regular channels and now I'm mining some of the irregular ones. The NSA and the CIA and the FIA all drew a blank, although there was this one fur with the FIA who knew _about_ Karl. She suggested I contact the ISB …"

"Which is what I said to begin with! Wendy _told_ you he'd gone to talk to them."

"Um, yes. And I will. The FIA contact gave me a name, which is more than Wendy knew, but I haven't had two minutes to rub together since last Friday. I'm multitasking right now."

"I thought I heard you tacketting away on a keyboard."

"Guilty; I'm fixing a drawing. You know, you'd _think_ someone with a Manufacturing Technology degree and five years CAD experience would know at least a _little_ about geometric tolerancing, but some of these prints would argue otherwise. I don't know what I'm going to do with that new kid in Building 22. He's just about the most …"

"Dear? This is a no-rant zone."

"Oops. Sorry. Forgot."

"Can you carve out a few minutes this afternoon to try to get in touch with the ISB? Wendy's losing her mind over this situation with her husband."

"I'll make time. They're a close-to-the-chest bunch, though. That's why I called the others first. They might tell me to go get stuffed."

"Or they might not. Please try."

"Oh, I'll try all right. Don't worry. I'm just sayin'."

"I know." She drew a sigh that might have meant a lot of things. "I love you, Sweetie."

"Love you, too."

"Get back to work."

##

_** Saturday 19 August 2017 – 3:00pm **_

Being situated as it was on a twenty-degree slope halfway up a mountain, the house commanded a very pleasant view from one side (the rear) and no view at all from the other. Wendy didn't really care, though. Many narrow trails ambled about through the dense forest, often leading to tiny, sylvan glades, or one of the several modest pools created by the network of artesian springs in the area. It was only on these paths, during this time of day, that she found any peace at all.

It had occurred to her more than once that she wouldn't mind running across that fox. He seemed to possess an empathy for her predicament, even if he didn't understand it, and following his advice had worked out for her, to an extent. But there were no foxes here; or if there were, they kept quiet about it.

This trail she currently followed was a new one, and led generally down. She'd been to the bottom of the slope once already, in a different place, and knew a bright and placid stream tumbled there along a narrow, rocky bed. She wanted to hear the stream again. It reminded her of Ash Creek, if only a little.

Another ten minutes of carefully picking her way among the rocks and ferns brought her to the stream. It was slightly wider here – meaning that it would take a short run to get up the speed required to jump it – and the cold water was achingly clear. She could see minnows darting about above the round, brown pebbles in the bed; water striders skating here and there on top, the tiny predators picking even tinier larvae off the surface. Both sides of the stream were thick with spicebush, the occasional bright red drupe peeking out from behind dark green leaves, softly aromatic where she brushed her paw through them.

It only took a minute of wandering along the bank to find a suitable outcropping, where the roots of an immense tulip tree had levered a boulder out of the ground. In the tree's full shade, the stone's smooth surface offered a cool sanctuary from the afternoon heat. Wendy climbed up on it and gratefully folded her legs under her. Settling herself to stillness, she closed her eyes and gradually relaxed the barriers she had so rigidly maintained around her mind the last couple days.

It was Tuesday, in the deep night, that the floodgates had crashed. Fortunately for her sanity only two other furs were awake at the time, and they were both fairly unimaginative types. She had been able to raise the walls around her mind, shaky and uncertain though they were, and kept the other furs' emotions from overwhelming her. She lay there until dawn, shivering and taut as a guy wire. All the next day she kept to her room, but walls didn't really do anything to damp the psychic flow, and mental barriers were especially difficult to maintain during her daily headache. She was exhausted by lunchtime, but kept enough of her wits about her to eat heartily, for which Debbye praised her. Then that evening she was surprised when the nausea never came. For the first time in weeks she was able to eat supper and keep it down.

Thursday she had to get away. Maintenance on the shield she held against the emotional assault was draining her, and she sensed that distance would help more than anything else. In this she was right. When no more than seventy or eighty meters from the house, the insistent pressure abated, giving her a bit of leeway for experimentation. But playing with the parameters of her shield proved nearly as tiring as fending off unwanted emotional energy, so she found a likely spot in a small grove of red maples and took a long nap.

It was Debbye's psychic signature that brought her back to wakefulness around noon. Worried about her friend, the squirrel had gone searching for her, to make sure she got something to eat. Shortly after lunch Wendy announced that she was going for another walk. But this time Debbye instructed one of the guards to tail her, and keep her in sight. That bothered the vixen. He was always close enough that she had to keep her shield up. But he was, after all, just one fur, and the pressure wasn't anything she couldn't handle, especially if she kept moving and held him at a little distance. She walked a very long way that afternoon, reasoning somewhat vindictively that he should earn his pay for protecting her.

Now, on the boulder, as soon as she lowered her shield, the guard _du jour_ showed up in her mind like a radar blip. He was behind her maybe forty meters, leaning against a tree and … and … _well!_ She blushed and pulled the shield back up, then looked down at her attire: black short-shorts and a yellow tank top, knotted up in front. She hadn't a gram of fat on her – not anywhere it _shouldn't_ be that is – and her coat was not yet finished growing back out to its normal length, so the lines of her finely honed physique were clear. She could hardly blame the guy for the way he was feeling, especially considering how very flattering those feelings were. She undid the knot and pulled the tank top back down. _I'll need to dress a little more conservatively. Say, khakis and sport shirts. Debbye could get those for me, couldn't she? And maybe a big, floppy hat?_

Having some male admire the way she looked brought her thoughts inevitably back to her missing husband. Of course, practically everything did that; the path was just a little straighter this way.

She'd given up on 'random accident' as a possible reason for his not finding her. They had him. They must. She and Debbye had made a very thorough search of all the databases she could think of, and nowhere in the law enforcement, medical, or search-and-rescue webs could they find anything about an oversized wolverine showing up. That only left a miscalculation on his part, and _that_ left him firmly in the ISB's paws.

_Oh, Karl, why didn't I __insist__? Why did you have to be so stubborn? Why didn't I stop you? I __knew__ it was a trap. I knew you'd be taken. We could have waited. I would have gotten better eventually. I'm getting better __now__; at least I think I am._ She sniffed and rubbed at her face. _Dealing with the headaches for the rest of my __**life**__ would be better than this. If I could just trade myself for you … if I only knew who to talk with to find you._

She stayed on the boulder until the sunlight came slanting in at a shallow angle, and Debbye came to find her and tell her supper was ready.

##

_** Thursday 25 August 2017 – 11:00am **_

Having sensed very early in the game that it would be to her advantage not to let anyone else know about her Augments, Wendy found it ironic that she was in a position to be grateful for her headaches. They gave her a perfect excuse to stay away from other furs. Long walks would ease the pain, she maintained – which was only sometimes true. That's why she was kicking herself so heartily now.

This morning, her headache failed entirely to materialize, and she had been so surprised and elated she ran and found Debbye to tell her.

The squirrel immediately called Lee, who insisted on questioning Wendy regarding her recent habits. He wanted her to go back to a pain specialist, and offered to locate one for her. However, as far as she was concerned, if she never in her _life_ stepped foot inside another aseptic, tastefully decorated waiting room, it would be twenty minutes too soon. She respectfully declined, stating that it was likely a fluke and they shouldn't get too worked up over it. She promised to keep them apprised of any changes.

But today's walk, at least as far as its being a solitary one, was not going to happen. Debbye stuck to her like glue, and pestered her with questions and suppositions and useful advice. That is, Wendy assumed that _Debbye_ thought the advice was useful. She wasn't in the mood to listen.

They were probably better than a klick from the house now, and Wendy strode along determinedly, forcing her friend to jog to keep up. Not that it was a problem. The squirrel was some years her junior, and in top physical condition. But it made conversation difficult, which irked Debbye.

"Would you slow down for just a minute?"

Wendy stopped and turned to face her. "This slow enough?"

Debbye put a paw on Wendy's shoulder, and the vixen had to fight not to flinch.

… _hope … concern … care … excitement …_

Physical contact heightened the emotional flow and barrier or no, Wendy got a taste of everything the other femme was feeling. "I just want to talk a minute. Can we sit over there on that log? The sun's starting to be a bit of a bother."

Wendy shrugged, using the motion to discreetly dislodge Debbye's paw, and moved into the shade. "Okay. What's on your mind?" _As if I didn't know._

"I just want to know what's on _yours_. You've been edgy and … well, almost like you've got a good case of PMS worked up. I just wondered if it was something you'd like to get off your chest."

Wendy leaned back against a piece of limb that jutted up out of the log. She put one arm behind her head and regarded the squirrel soberly for several long moments. What would be the danger here? She was already married to a guy who was privy to some of the government's toppiest-top secret plans, undoubtedly stuff that could change the face of the Free World if she blabbed. She had proven herself a good friend in any number of ways; hell, she'd saved Wendy's life, or helped to, back at Michael's place. _If I can't trust Debbye with some of what I'm dealing with, who __can__ I trust? Nobody? That would suck. It __does__ suck. I don't want to carry this around on my own_.

Her muzzle quirked as she nodded to herself. _What the hell._ "Okay. I do have … that is, I've got something I … I would like to tell you. But …" and she leaned toward Debbye until their faces were just a few centimeters apart, and dropped her voice, "… but it has to be private. Totally private." She flicked a glance back the way they'd come.

Debbye nodded in turn and pulled out her PA. "Corporal?"

The voice replied in seconds, "Yes, Ma'am?"

"We're going to sit right here for a while and chat. I think you can return to the house for now."

"You sure, Ma'am?"

"Yes, I am. We'll be fine. I've got my pistol in case any dangerous ferals show up, and Ms. Wylde and I are both competent martial artists."

"Roger, Ma'am, just give a yell if you need me."

Wendy allowed her hearing to Augment and had no trouble picking up the soldier's end of the conversation from his position some thirty-five meters away. It gave a weird echo when paired with his voice coming from the PA. She heard him get up and walk away, and smiled to herself.

"Okay," said Debbye as she put her PA away, "this is about as private as anybody ought to need to be. What's up?"

Wendy didn't say anything right away, closing her eyes instead as she felt around the edges of her shield. Carefully, gradually, she took it down, feeling the weight of her friend's subconscious bearing down on her. But this time, rather than fighting it or trying to avoid it, she allowed it to enter, to permeate, to flow along with her own thoughts. And she found it wasn't quite the burden she'd feared. Her eyes opened and locked onto Debbye's. "Tell me about Lee."

"Huh?"

"How do you feel about Lee?"

"Whuh … what kind of a question is that? I love him! How else would I feel about him?"

_Ahhh! I thought that might get a strong reaction._ The sudden welter of emotions was intense but oddly pleasant, and a small frisson ran up her back. Debbye loved her cat with a deep and passionate totality, a force that put Wendy in mind of what she'd felt when snuggled down in Karl's psyche. It wasn't really any great stretch to handle the load. She rearranged herself on the log, closed her eyes again, and said, "Tell me about George and Linda."

… _pride … love … fun … worry … love … cute … love … frustration … love …_

Wendy sighed. "Yeah. I felt that way about Emily." She smiled, a sad little ghost that hinted of so many might-have-beens.

"But … but I didn't say anything."

Wendy turned her gaze on her friend, a more sober expression settling onto her face. "Yeah. You did. Just not out loud."

The squirrel's brow furrowed, her mouth worked open twice, and then her eyes got very round. "Are you … are you telling me you're … you're a _telepath?_"

"No. I wish. Or maybe I don't. Who knows? No, what I can do – that is, what my brain _does_ whether I want it to or not – is pick up on other furs' emotions. In some detail."

"Wow. Can I, ah, assume this is a, um, a new development?"

"Very new. About all I can do to protect myself is … kind of build a wall around me. A mental shield. It's hard to explain."

"I bet. Is it difficult to … what, construct? … produce?"

"I don't know a better word, either. And, yeah. I don't really know what I'm doing. Maybe there's a better way to do it, but right now if I want to keep other folks' streams of consciousness from punching holes in my cranium, I have to keep the barrier up. And it takes a lot of work. That's why I've been going on these walks, to get away from all those soldiers. This empathic thing doesn't have much range, and if I'm eighty or a hundred meters from everybody, I can let my headfur down." She glanced up at her not-quite-bangs-length mop and giggled, twirling a lock in her fingers. "So to speak."

"Oh, Wendy! Why didn't you tell me before? I could've … wait." She sat back and regarded the vixen for a moment. "This is related to your pain somehow, isn't it?"

"Possibly."

"And you've had pain for _weeks!"_

Wendy nodded. "For a lot longer than I've had this empathic thing."

"Huh." She thought about that a moment and then asked, "Was there a specific event that started the ball rolling?"

Drawing a long sigh, the vixen replied, "Well … yeah. There was."

"And are you at liberty to discuss it?"

She chewed her lip briefly. "… Not really."

"It has something to do with Karl, doesn't it?"

"Uh … you could say that, I guess."

"And he can't fix it?"

"He hasn't been able to yet. But he was going after some information …" Debbye's face suddenly took on a blurred, starry outline, and Wendy paused to wipe at her eyes. "He was trying to find out as much as he could. When … when they got him."

"Oh, Wendy, I'm so sorry! What a mess!"

"… Yeah."

"What can … Is there anything I can do?"

"You're already doing it, kid. And I appreciate it more than you know." She sniffed and gave the other femme a watery smile. "Tell you what, though. If you could keep the grunts away from me, it would be a big help. They mean well and they're only here to help and yadda-yadda; but I don't dare let the walls down around them, or I'd be in a continual state of blush." She thought of something and snickered. "Except for that young guy."

"Young guy? They're all pretty young."

"Private Stevens. I don't do _anything_ for him. Now, the Sergeant, on the other paw, just yanks him right out of the frame."

Her eyebrows high, Debbye stared at the vixen. "You know, you could parlay that talent into quite a thriving blackmail business if you weren't quite so honest."

"Heh. Yeah, maybe. Too much work collecting the extortion money, though."

Unsure of whether she was joking or not, Debbye didn't reply to that statement. Instead she offered, "I suppose we could have the squads bivouac a hundred meters or so up the driveway. They might think it weird, but they'd do it if we asked."

"Do we even need them at all? I mean, seriously, Lee said it: no one knows this place is here. You guys are seriously off the grid. We could be on the dark side of the moon and not be any less detectable. And I can promise you without fear of contradiction that they are, for the most part, bored clear out of their skulls. There isn't a one of them that wouldn't welcome some kind of attempt on our lives, just to break the monotony."

Debbye mulled that over. "I guess it would be okay. We've spent months here over the time we've had the place, and nobody ever even so much as turned around at the end of the driveway." Catching Wendy's puzzled glance, she asked, "What?"

"Your driveway is, like, three quarters of a klick long. How would you know?"

"Oh, right. You didn't know. We have motion detectors around the perimeter."

"Oh! Cool. That's … interesting."

"Eh. They're a cheap, effective warning system. But all they ever pick up is deer and bears and bobcats." She grinned at the vixen. "And you, since you moved in. Your walks range out quite a ways."

"Yes, I supposed they do."

"So. How about I have a talk with Lee and see about getting us a bit more privacy?"

"I'd be grateful."

Debbye slapped her knee. "Consider it done."

##


	17. Chapter 7 Hell Hath No Fury  Part E

_**Chapter Seven – Hell Hath No Fury … – Part E**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Saturday 27 August 2017 – 1:15am **_

"Can't sleep?"

Debbye looked up from where she was tapping steadily on her notebook. "Nope. I got a good idea for how the action works out in this next sequence. It kept playing out in my head, and I knew I'd get no peace until I had it committed to paper. Or ones and zeros anyway." She finished another sentence and glanced back at Wendy. "You, too?"

"Yeah. It's funny. Having those headaches for so long for so much of everyday, I lost perspective on how much it was taking out of me. So yesterday's little bit of nothing and this morning's complete lack of pain … well, I guess I'm feeling kind of supercharged. It's like how you feel so light when you drop a heavy load you've been carrying for a long time."

"Ah. Yes, I know that feeling." She turned back to her keyboard and started typing again.

Wendy wandered over and peeked at the text. "Okay. Writing as Bridget Carpenter again, I see."

"Uh-huh. I thought I was done with her, but Sheila's daughter had other ideas."

"Daughter? When did Sheila have a daughter? At the end of the last book she wasn't even pregnant!"

"Well, no. This is twenty years later, and her oldest, a girl named Genevieve, has fallen for this ex-Mormon and there's some bad blood between him and this bunch that runs the town and the mines, and …"

"Whoa, whoa! No details. I'll buy it when it comes out." She moved toward the kitchen. "I'm gonna make myself some chamomile tea. You want some?"

"I'll take peppermint. Chamomile puts me right to sleep."

"That's what I'm hoping it'll do for me."

Wendy puttered around, boiling water and steeping tea and setting out lemon wedges and sugar cubes, and was just about to carry a tray out to the main room when Debbye padded in. "Hi. Thought I'd join you in here."

"Must've gotten to a good stopping place."

"More or less." She took a seat and pointed at the two cups in turn, one eyebrow quirked.

"One on the left."

"Thanks." One sugar lump and a wedge of lemon went into the cup, which she then picked up and held under her nose. "I love that aroma."

Wendy chuckled and said, "Yeah, you do."

That bought her a sidelong glance. "Got your barrier down?"

"Yep. You don't weigh heavy on my mind the way a lot of furs do."

"Guess I'll have to watch what I'm feeling, huh?"

"Can you do that?"

"… I have no idea."

"Well you don't have to on my account." Resting her elbows on the table, she continued, "If you're thinking about your family, the vibes I get are so sweet and refreshing that I drop whatever else I'm doing and just sort of … bask in it."

Debbye watched her for a moment and then leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Wendy shortly followed suit, not even trying to fight her growing smile. They sat, and sipped their tea, and Wendy spent several minutes just soaking up the feelings coming off her friend.

… _peace … love … trust … _

… _joy … love … admiration …_

… _friendship … shyness … love … determination … _

… _happiness … contentment … love …_

At length she said, "You have a good life, Debbye."

"I do. I won't try to deny it. I've been … _phenomenally_ blessed."

"I am very glad to have known you. To know that there are furs like you; that this ball of dirt isn't just something everyone has to endure until we die. Not for everyone." She set her cup down, the little bit of tea remaining in it now tepid, stood, and stepped over to Debbye. Giving her a hug, she kissed the top of her head and said, "Thank you."

"You're welc – " But the sudden jerk that shook her frame cut the word off. "Aiighh!"

Wendy jerked back herself. "What? What's wrong?"

Debbye's eyes threatened to pop right out of their sockets. "You! I saw! Saw you! You did …" she blinked and shook her head. "What … what'd you do?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Your … you … the feelings! I saw!"

"… Saw? Saw what?"

"You! Your … emotions … I think." She drew a deep breath and gazed at Wendy with hollow eyes. "I'm … I'm so … sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

"For you." She drew a stuttering breath and whispered, "How can you bear it?"

_Oh, hell. Pity I do __**not**__ need._ "Don't worry about it. I don't."

"Well … yeah, but …"

"How the hell did it happen, anyway?"

"I don't … that is, I think … I think you were … projecting. Or something."

"Oh, _God_, that's the _last_ thing I need to happen!"

At Debbye's confused look, Wendy elaborated. "Look, if I start projecting my emotions, there's no telling what sort of reaction that'll bring in the furs around me. I mean, come on! 'Grab the torches and pitchforks, folks, we're gonna have us a good ol'-fashioned witch burning!'"

"Oh, surely you don't think … that …" She paused, her face scrunched in thought. "No. You might be right. Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups."

"And the groups don't even have to be very large. I had some moonbat sect invade my property last year and try to burn a cross on my lawn."

"Oh. No. You. Didn't!"

"Believe it. They thought I was a witch because …" _Hold on, there Wendy. You've already knocked the pins out from under the girl with this empathy thing. Better not overload her circuits._ "… uh, because one of their members who stayed at the Inn got a few wrong impressions. They were ready to denounce me and do some sort of forced conversion or something."

After a long, heartfelt sigh, Debbye said, "I get so – _**incredibly**_ – tired of people calling themselves Christians and then acting like that."

Wendy snickered. "Y'know, I heard almost the exact same statement from that preacher, Alan Grey."

"You know Pastor Grey? I thought you were firmly un-churched."

"I am. But he came out to the Inn after he got some kind of heads-up that the loon squad had me in their sights. He talked 'em down and gave Conner a chance to get the drop on 'em." Pursing her lips, she added, "Not that he couldn't have anyway. But it did help."

"Oh." Debbye took a minute to absorb that. "Well. So, do you have your shield back up?"

"You know it. I don't want to foist off my mental swamp on anyone, especially you. That'd be a hell of a 'thank you' after all you've done."

"Uh. Okay." Pensive, she chewed on her lip while watching the vixen. "I can't disagree. Just from the one glimpse I got, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want to have to … _deal_ with that any more than I had to."

"Exactly."

Debbye nodded at her teacup. "You done with that?"

"Oh. Yeah."

She held out a paw. "I'll take it, then. And you go on to bed."

#

_** 8:30am **_

Despite the short night, Wendy's eyes opened of their own accord around dawn, so she got up and made breakfast for herself and Debbye. The squirrel had just finished feeding Michelle and getting her settled back into her bassinette when she caught the aroma of toasting bagels. Following her nose to the kitchen, she ended up getting drafted to perk the coffee. The two femmes enjoyed a leisurely (and excellent) meal, and discussed the ramifications of what had transpired the previous night.

Wendy was just beginning to toy with the idea of making a second pot of coffee when her PA beeped. The sound was so unexpected that she didn't realize what it was for a moment, but when the fact that someone was calling her – and calling her on a line that no one else should have known – made it completely into her conscious mind, her adrenal glands dumped their entire load into her bloodstream. Paws trembling so badly that she could barely hold onto the device, she pulled it out of the pocket of her robe and (on the third try) punched the activation button. **_"Karl? Hello? Karl?"_**

But instead of hearing her husband's voice, the unit simply said, "You have one pending message. It is marked 'High Importance'. Press 'one' to receive the message." Holding one thumb steady with the other, she carefully pressed the number with both of them, and the hologram routine activated.

It was Karl, dressed as she had last seen him. He was standing in what looked like a hotel room. The image said,

"_Hello, __Wendy. __If __you__'__re __getting __this __message, __then __I __wasn__'__t __there __to __deactivate __it, __which __means __that__ …" _and the corner of his muzzle quirked up in that cute half-smile she loved so much, _"… __well, __it __means __I __may __have __made __a __slight __miscalculation._

Her lungs didn't seem to be working. None of the ragged breaths she tried to draw felt as if they made it all the way inside, and the room began to spin, just a little. _'If you're getting this message …'_ The phrase rattled around in her head, knocking into all the memories she had ever gleaned from sappy country songs and tear-jerking Reader's Digest stories, and personal tales from the relatives of those who didn't make it back from Viet Nam or Iraq or Afghanistan or the Sudan. _'If you're getting this message …'_ Like a bell of black iron the words tolled in her ear. It was what she knew someone always heard right before hearing something she hoped she'd never live to hear. But he was still talking.

_If so, then I'm probably being held by the ISB. Given their level of mistrust where I'm concerned, it's not likely that I would be given any sort of freedom to communicate with you, and I wouldn't even try while under their observation. The last thing I want is for them to get their paws on you._

The ISB! Hope flooded her mind. _They're a government agency, so it shouldn't be too hard to get in touch with them and find out where he is!_ Instantly she began making plans, but then he said,

_To __that __end, __I __want __you __to __lay __low.__" _He took a step toward the camera, one paw up in a pleading gesture. _"__You __have __to __stay __under __the __radar. __Please? __For __me? __You __must __strive __to __be __undetectable, __to __become __the __Gray __Fur, __as __we __discussed __a __few __times. __That __means __you __won__'__t __be __able __to __go __back __to __the __Inn __just __yet. __Doubtless __they __have __the __place __staked __out __by __now. __So, __wherever __you __are, __please, __for __my __sake, __don__'__t __try __to __find __me. __Don__'__t __contact __the __ISB; __that __would __be __simply __too __dangerous. __I __know __it __will __be __hard, __but, __Honey, __if __anything __happened __to __you __I __would __just __die._

By this point Wendy was sobbing quite freely. Debbye, tears threatening her own eyes, stepped over and laid her paws on the vixen's shoulders.

_I __don__'__t __know __what __they __have __in __mind, __but __if __I __can __escape __I __will. __If __I __can__'__t__ … __well, __then __your __sacrifice __of __your __own __liberty __won__'__t __accomplish __anything.__" _He moved another step closer._ "__To __help __you __stay __thoroughly __anonymous, __I__'__ve __left __GPS __codes __in __your __PA __to __fifty-three __different __caches __located __at __random __points __around __the __country. __So __anywhere __you __have __to __go, __you __shouldn__'__t __be __too __far __from __material __aid. __Each __cache __has __money __and __food __and __weapons __and __brown __dye __for __your __fur, __and __many __of __them __have __a __lot __more __than __that._

"Fifty-three caches!" exclaimed Debbye. "That must have cost him a bundle!"

Wendy just gulped, unable to speak.

_The codes are located in the 'Tools' area under 'Sound setup' in a file called 'Older'. The password is the month and day of my birth, both in base-eight, followed by the name of the month you were born. You are also set up with a Gold Zone account with Passport Car Rental, in case you need transportation. Your name for that purpose is Stella d'Arc, a resident of Toronto, and all of her personal information is with the codes. She is a photographer for a major Canadian news magazine, and as such should have little trouble traveling where she wants to go. I know you used to have some small interest in photography, and thought this might be a useful cover that you could maintain fairly easily._

Debbye was truly impressed. "Boy. He really put a lot of thought into this. And a lot of time, too, it sounds like."

The vixen managed, "… Yeah. A lot of time." _Oh, Karl, you __must__ have known the danger! Why else would you have devoted so much effort to putting all this together for me? Oh, my stupid, brave Darling!_

_In eight of the caches I've left the sort of camera equipment you'd be expected to use, along with all the identification documents and cards you'll need. Those are indicated on the map with a camera symbol. The full key is on the first page in the 'Older' file._

_If you need to get somewhere in a really big hurry, I'd recommend calling Lee Evans first. He and I had a few talks and he's willing to help if necessary. Otherwise, Passport should be your best bet._

_Sweetheart, __I__'__m __really __sorry __about __all __this. __Obviously __I __missed __something, __and __I __have __no __idea __what, __or __I __would __have __countered __it. __I __know __you __must __be __worried. _He stopped then and looked directly into the camera. _Yeah.__ '__Worried__' __is __probably __something __of __an __understatement. __Please __know __that __I __love __you. __I __always __will. __And __I __**will **__come __back, __if __the __possibility __exists. __I __love __you __so __much. _He held up a paw. _Until __we __meet __again._

His image winked out. Wendy stared through the area where he'd been for a few breaths and then her head crumpled over onto the table, her shoulders heaving. Debbye dropped to her knees and wrapped her friend in a tight hug while she wept.

##

_** Monday 29 August 2017 – 10:15am **_

The elevator music that had been numbing Lee's ear for the last eight minutes ceased abruptly. "Internal Security Bureau. How may I direct your call?"

"Oh! Right, thank you. Yes, I would like to speak to Leonard Capra, please."

"Just a moment."

"But that's what the last operator …" The elevator music came back on, and Lee huffed an elaborate sigh.

A mere two minutes had passed when the next functionary down the line came on. "Terrorism Interdiction, Northeast. How may I direct your call?"

"May I please speak to Leonard Capra?"

"Let me see if he is in today, sir." More elevator music.

He drummed his fingers on the desk. Somefur should clue them in about the benefits of satellite radio. But the bland instrumental hadn't even finished before he heard a click and a voice said, "Yeh, dis is Capra. Who're you?"

"Ah, good morning Mr. Capra. My name is Lee Evans. I work for the Department of Defense."

Capra shuffled his stogie to the other side of his muzzle. "Okay. What's da DoD need from me?"

"I believe we have a mutual acquaintance in the person of one Karl Luscus."

Capra had been leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other at the knee. Now both his feet hit the floor and his grip on the phone increased markedly. "… Say dat name again."

"Karl Luscus. You may know him better as Beorn Gulo."

"How da _hell_ did youse get _dat_ name? How d'ya know 'im?"

"As to how I got his name, he introduced himself when we met each other in church last September. I consider him a friend." He paused briefly, but when Capra didn't respond, he continued, "And I would like to speak with you about his wife."

"His wife? I don't know nuttin' about her, 'cept what she looks like. Neveh met 'er."

"Yes, I realize that. She is also a friend of mine."

"Damn, son, youse get aroun'."

"Ah, um, yes, well I suppose you could see it that way. In any case, his wife is very anxious to find out as much as she can about his welfare. The last information she had indicated that he was going to a meeting with some representatives of the ISB, and she has since been given reason to believe that he may be … detained by your agency."

Capra thought furiously for several seconds. "Tell ya what, Bub. I'll put ya in touch wit' my boss an' da two o' ya's can woik out da details. Dis is oveh my head already."

"That will be satisfactory. Can you give me his name?"

"How's about _youse_ gimme all _yer_ contact info an' I'll pass it on to 'im."

Another sigh. "Very well. If that's how it has to be."

. . .

. . .

. . .

**Here Ends Chapter 7**


	18. Interlude  Redux

**_Interlude_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

What kept running around in my head as I sat there in my office – oh, pardon me, what I meant to say was: as I squirmed like some guilt-ridden schoolboy in front of the headmaster – was the statement, "This was a bad idea."

Pastor Alan Grey had built up a pretty good head of steam. And as if that weren't enough, you create this insane level of angst where none was necessary!

_**What do you mean, not necessary?**_

You knew all along that she was getting better, that she wasn't in any real danger. And yet you just couldn't leave it at that. You had to go and chuck poor Karl to the piranhas.

_**I did nothing of the sort. That was his decision.**_

His **_guided_** decision, you mean. If he'd had all the facts …

_**I gave him all the facts. He was perfectly well aware of the dangers inherent in what he planned to do. Nor did he have to go haring off on that risky errand. Everything that could have been deduced from the information he had pointed to her recovery! He just didn't want to see it.**_

That's ridiculous! What sane fur would take such an obvious gamble if he didn't have to?

I had to stop and consider his question for a minute, and it occurred to me how odd it sounded to hear the term 'fur' coming from him here. Alan presented on this side as a solid, kindly, middle-aged fellow of obvious West-European descent, with twinkly gray-green eyes, a full head of hair going slowly silver and a hundred laugh lines around his eyes and mouth. He wasn't laughing now, though.

_**How many people have you known who were as hopelessly in love as he is who could be reliably described as 'sane'?**_

He sat back in his chair and rested his chin in one hand, regarding me keenly. Finally he shrugged and said, That may be beside the point. You do have some control over these events, whether you think you do or not.

_**Well I'd love for you to show me where.**_ I scooted by my rear back into the seat and tried to sit straight. _**With all the 'history' Karl has, his decisions have a tendency to take on the inevitability of a glacier. He never listens to me. As for that, I don't think he even trusts me. No matter what I write, the plot always ends up headed in the direction he envisions, even if it isn't somewhere he wants to go.**_

Like Libya?

_**Very much like Libya. But that business with the mole, Darrel, combined with the TFN following Wendy to Ash Creek, tripped a domino off to the side that I hadn't anticipated. They probably would have found him, otherwise.**_

Alan's mouth twisted in frustration. And that lets you neatly off the hook? I don't think so.

_**You'd rather I just stop, then? I could, you know. There's another novel just itching to be worked on, and it doesn't involve anyone else's copyrighted characters. I could actually sell that one.**_

You **_can't_** stop now! You can't leave them this way. That would be heinously immoral.

_**You think I don't know that? You think I'm not just as frustrated as you are?**_

I'm not frustrated. I'm disappointed. You could do so much better.

_**Baloney.**_

He drummed his fingers on my desk. Well.

… … … _**Well, what?**_

That's your decision, I suppose.

_**My decision! You act like I just sat down one day and decided to make their lives a hell on earth. That simply is not the case.**_

And yet, that is exactly where we find ourselves, is it not?

_**You reeeally don't get it. I try to write it one way, and they toss grappling hooks into the plot and yank on it until it heaves around, bleeding and disheveled, and traveling the way they want to go. I've tried! I have!**_

You practice that line in front of a mirror?

_**No! Alan, listen!**_ I was all but pleading with him now._** Take yourself, for example.**_

Me? What about me?

_**You and Brightlimb weren't ever intended to meet.**_

Technically speaking, we **_haven't_** met.

_**Don't get cute. You know what I mean. You had your own agenda for that meeting and everything leading up to it. You think I put that premonition into Sandee's head? Not likely.**_

Who are you trying to convince, me or yourself?

_**I'm trying to make you see reason.**_

I think I see pretty clearly. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, holding my gaze. You need to pray about this, and pray hard.

_**You think I don't?**_

I think maybe you aren't listening to the answers.

_**And I think maybe the answers I'm getting aren't what you think they should be.**_

He stared at me for another drawn-out moment, shook his head, and stood. This isn't getting us anywhere. I can see that. But, Clint, I want you to think about something.

_**Which is?**_

I would rather be kind than be right, because I am a great deal surer of what is kind than I am of what is right.

_**Quoth Robert Brault. Yes, I am familiar with the citation.**_

That's more of a paraphrase. But I hope you get the point.

_**I get your point just fine. You aren't seeing any part of mine, though. Alan, I'm a bloody stenographer! I no more write the story anymore than you do.**_

As you say. He plucked his hat off my filing cabinet and dropped it on his head. Good day, Clint. Please, please pray about this. And he left.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. Any more, my prayers have been rather simple and straightforward: HEEEELLLLP!

But today I would get no answer. Not one I recognized, anyway.

. . .

. . .

. . .

**Here Ends Book Eight**


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